


Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings

by AnonymousPresence



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel (ish), Angst, F/M, Horcruxes, Misunderstood Tom, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:39:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9461411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPresence/pseuds/AnonymousPresence
Summary: Hermione is caught in a complicated web of magic; which—for some reason—finds that it is most compelled to drop her in and out of the life of Tom Riddle.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**I**

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty Five

* * *

 

 

She was falling.

Tumbling.

Her mouth open wide; silently screaming; only to be swallowed into darkness.

Falling.

Tumbling.

And it _fucking_ hurt.

.

.

.

Hermione's body slammed into a hard and cold surface. She vaguely felt the invisible clutches fading away, but running their nonexistent sharp claws along her skin as if a reminder—a reminder for _what_ , the witch didn't know. She groaned with her eyes squeezed shut; her was chest rapidly rising and falling, greedily pulling in air to her lungs. The blazing heat and ridge cold was _finally_ diminishing.

Bloody hell; her whole body ached.

She suddenly heard a shuffle.

The girl stiffened. Slowly, she turned her head towards the sound and cracked open her unwilling eyes. Her brain protested to function properly, refusing to let her vision clear. She might have cracked her head against the stone floor, but once her sight wasn't a blurry mess, she was looking at a very distinctive picture—either to test her sanity or simple _fuck you_ to her intelligence. Stormy grey hues bore into hers, filled with painful unshed tears and his body was quaking. Before her mind began to kick start with information, his unmistakable cascade of white blonde hair screamed his identity; Malfoy.

Perhaps fate really was insulting her intellect.

"D-d-raco?" She rasped. When was the last time she had seen the ferret? She remembered the air of arrogance around him thinned—by war—his shoulders ridged, and the sneer had evaporated from his pale chapped lips. But this didn't seem to be that man. He was frightened, terrified even; that much was true. But the haughty mien was absolutely suffocating—nothing dwindled about it. And his hair was grown out longer— much longer. He looked disgustingly like his father—a man she knew Draco rather shave his entire head of fine hair off than to be anything like Lucius. "What's going on?" Her hoarse voice was barely audible. She was tried. So very, very tired.

He scarcely managed to shake his head; his quivering breaths unable to make anything punctiliously like a word to pass through his lips. Draco was on his knees, sweating and shuddering.

"No more, Abraxas," a cold voice cut through the silence and it had actually caused her to shiver. "No more. _Occisus ignis_!"

The hiss-of-a-spell that was meant for 'Abraxas'—Draco impostor—had struck the witch instead—like the caster had absolutely no idea that she was there.

The spell felt like hot knives, carving into her flesh with no mercy. Hermione let out a cry of pain and curled to her side in a pathetic attempt to just _make it stop_ ; her skin burned and tearing relentlessly. Exhaustion had soaked to her core from her fall and the cruel agony only made it worse. Slowly, she narrowly opened her eyes, her arms clinging her to bleeding form, to meet a dark set of eyes. They were wide, shocked— _horror_ etched into his beautiful, pale face.

Her chest was beginning to feel light again—not from the blood draining from her body—like she was slipping through the cold, stone floor. She felt the promised _reminder_ gripping her once more.

"HERMIONE!" The beautiful man cried out, his hand outstretching, legs pulling him forward, but it was too late.

She was falling. 

.

.

.

A-fucking-gain.

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty

* * *

 

 

Her back collided painfully against something hard—uneven. She choked in a breath; her eyes squeezed shut in the haze of pain. Her body protested the horrid treatment; the feeling of a familiar pull— _cruel promising_ — loosening its grip once more. Black spots danced in her vision, staring up at the familiar stone ceilings through barely opened eyes. What was going on? What was _happening_ to her? Parting her chapped lips, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment, she let out a small hiss of anguish between clenched teeth. She could feel the blood from her wounds seep around her; her clothes clinging uncomfortably against her skin.

The sound of shuffling was loud in her ears.

Her eyes popped open wide.

Merlin be _damned_ , if she was attacked again—

Hermione immediately moved her hands for her wand; to her pockets, thighs, arms, breasts, and the clutter around her; but her fingers couldn't find her life line. Oh, no. No, no, _no_! Panic flooded through her weak veins, fueling her heart beat to race against her chest. Where was her wand!? Did she drop it? Was it even with her? Closing her eyes and calming her breaths, her magic crackled around her, extending, searching, reaching out for her wand— _any wand_.

It should have confused her when she felt quite of bit a wands calling back to her in assistance—that wasn't was what worried her at the moment. Her fingers twitched, _accio'ing_ the closest wand, which was, in fact, right next to her. She was truly being laughed at, wasn't she? When her fingers wrapped around the wood, her magic reacted, almost _melting_ with it—even though the she could feel that it certainly wasn't her own; though that was before her magic hissed in warning. Ignoring her magical core rejecting the wand, she rolled slightly, and suddenly tumbled face first towards the stone floors. Before she could shriek, her soldier instincts forced her hands to shoot out in front of her, propelling her back up into a defense stance quickly. With the unfamiliar wand in one hand, the other wrapped around her side to try to stop the blood flowing, she turned towards the beautiful attacker—

—Or at least, that's where he should have been.

She suddenly felt more than heard _Expelliarmus_ , and it felt powerful. She whirled around, flicking her wrist, non-verbally casting a shield and waved her arm again, pushing the attacker back and then silently casting _Petrificus Totalus_.

The apparent assailant let out a hiss of pain, and a then a frustrated growl.

Dark blue—almost black—eyes met brown.

_What?_

Whatever had brought her here was surely laughing at her confusion.

Her eyebrows creased, her defense slightly slipping as her breaths rushed through her parted lips. This was a boy; he looked like the same man that had cursed her . . . but, somehow, he was younger. Clad in a Slytherin uniform, not in the dark robes from earlier, dark eyes were wide—shock—in awe, and what she could read the most like it was screaming at her; anger, suffering, longing. Hurt.

Was this a bloody joke?

Where was Malfoy? No—what was his name—Abraxas?

Her eyes flickered around hastily, seeing a classroom full of students whom all stared back at her. She spotted the blonde in the back of the room, sitting with a sneer that would rival Draco's; possibly even Lucius's. And he was in perfect condition—no sign of distress.

 _What was going on?_ Confusing and panic flooded through her—surging and she started to shake.

"Dear Merlin, girl! What is the meaning of this!?"

She whirled around again with her borrowed wand thrust up—but then she faltered. Hermione's mouth suddenly felt dry. Professor Slughorn, well, a bit of a younger version of him, stood in front of her, his wand raised.

What in the name of _Godric?_

Shakily, she lowered her wand and leaned back heavily against a desk. Her breaths were loud, uneven, and her body suddenly felt dense. Her eyes moved slowly back to the student who cast the spells earlier.

He glared harshly at her; his face bubbling with range of emotions and it looked as if he was trying to wiggle from her body bind. She cleared her throat and took a shaky step towards him, waving the borrowed wand, and watched his body suddenly slack. She placed the wand down in front of him on the desk that was covered in blood—her blood.

—So that's was what she had landed on.

"O-oh. Erm. . . Sorry." Her voice was hoarse in her dry mouth. Even the wand was covered in blood from her fingertips. Waving her hand, she performed _scourgify_ wandlessly and the blood vanished from the wood, the books, and the parchment that littered the desk.

As soon as the boy found himself free, he lunged at his wand and pointed it at her with unbelievable speed and poise; his eyes hard and his body's movements were stiff. Was he really going to attack her again with _everyone_ in the room?

"You," she heard him hiss, which sounded like an accusation. That hiss filled with anguish, rage, sadness, and—disbelief? Hermione's eyes widen, staring at the boy—he certainly wasn't a man—his eyes glassy, holding his wand out to her heart with a wavering, shaky hand.

She simply gawked blankly at him. Slowly, her eyebrow furrowed in confusion. What he talking to _her_? He had to be. He was looking at her.

_What in the name of Merlin?_

The two continued to look at each other, their magic crackling around them; his in rage, and hers in warning. How was this boy the same beautiful man she seen not a moment ago? _Why is he so upset?_ The students in the class room started to whisper at the abrupt display between the student and the interruption of a bleeding woman.

"Tom, what is going on?" Slughorn called out, but he did not receive an answer.

The boy—Tom—did not move his dark, haunting eyes from her—nor his wand. His glare was unwavering, unlike his shaking body. She licked her chapped lips, about to open her mouth and say something when his choked voice stopped her.

"Why?"

 _Why what?_ Her brain was desperately trying to keep up, but she was beginning to feel light headed.

His wand now was digging painfully into her chest. "Why did you leave me?" His voice was in a quivering harsh whisper. Hermione had the audacity to quirk her brow up. "You promised me you would stay!" he shouted, his tears were finally spilling over his cheeks.

_Leave?_

"I-I'm sorry," she rasped out. "Y-you're mistaken."

The moment she let phrase leave her lips, she knew it was a mistake. His face—anger and sadness clashing together—only seemed to be contorting in pain.

She was met with heart breaking, deafening silence.

"Minerva, go get Madam Pomfrey before she bleeds to death!" Slughorn's voice sounded far away; muddled. As if she remembered her bleeding body, Hermione winced as she squeezed her arms around herself.

The boy paused, finally seeing the blood seeping through her fingers—even though it was all over his desk not long ago.

"You're bleeding," he whispered raggedly, his tear streaked face finally pulled out of anguish and confusion was setting in.

Perhaps now he would understand he had the _wrong witch_.

"What happened? Hermione? Who did this to you?" He demanded.

She started—openly gaped at him.

He knew her _name_?

But she certainly did _not_ know him. Her body was becoming heavier and heavier, slumping forward without her consent, swaying ever so slightly on her feet, her knees shaking.

"Hermione!" His voice sounded so worried. She wondered for a moment if there was another witch named Hermione and it was all just an honest mistake. She barely registered his little hands clutching desperately at her arms, her eyes lids hardly able to hold open. Before she knew it, she was swallowed in darkness.

.

.

.

"—at do you mean she just fell out of the sky? Do you understand how _ridiculous_ you sound?!"

"Just that! She just fell right on Riddle's desk out of nowhere!"

"How can that be? There are anti-apparition wards surrounding Hogwarts."

"The poor girl is bleeding!"

"Well—Erm, yes. I'm surprised none of the students fainted."

"Poor dear," a soft voice sighed.

Hermione felt someone touching her side at that moment. Without a second thought, her hand twitched, _accio'ing_ the closest wand to her hand, sprang from the bed, and held it at an older witch's throat. Her body was exhausted, but the spiked fear and adrenaline kept the younger witch going. The movement caused pain to shoot all over her body, mostly at her recent wounds, but she ignored it.

All the commotion paused and the only thing heard was her rapid breathing. The woman in front of her obviously didn't look to be a threat.

She only smiled sadly. "It's alright, lassie. Now put the wand down."

Hermione did no such thing.

A sound came to the right and she moved her wand towards the direction. Her eyes registered the unfamiliar faces, with the exception of the younger Professor Slughorn.

"Now, now, dear. Lower your wand, please." An older man said. Now that Hermione had stared at him, he did look vaguely familiar.

But of course, Hermione did not listen to him either. Her hand was shaking. Nothing was making any sense.

_Where is Harry? Ron?_

The bigger question: Just _where_ was _she_?

Someone walked into the circle that surrounded her cot and Hermione nearly passed out yet again. There, standing right before her— _alive_ — was Professor Dumbledore; a much younger version of him.

"P-Professor Dumbledore." She squeaked, her hand shaking harder and her vision was becoming blurry. The man in question raised his eyebrow. Hermione thickly swallowed the lump in her throat. "W-where am I?"

Dumbledore took a step closer towards her, placing a warm—and very much alive—hand on her shoulder. "You are at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?"

"Yes, and you're safe."

"Safe," she replied stupidly.

He nodded. She opened her mouth, ready to attack the young professor with a million of questions, but nothing came out. She snapped her lips shut, lowering her wand until her hand fell limp in her lap. She swallowed again.

"Am I dead?"

It seemed like such an absurd thing for the brightest-witch-of-her-age to say, but the words tumbled out of her mouth. It was the only explanation. Well, there was still one question: Why the hell did her body _still_ hurt?

"Not at all m'dear," her old Headmaster chuckled.

 Hermione bit her lip. "Y-you're alive?"

His eyes twinkled. "Yes, I do believe I am."

.

.

.

Her face—confusion and all—swam into his memory. She looked the same.

Exactly the _fucking_ same.

She was wearing the _same_ ridiculous trousers; skinny around her calves, but slightly looser from her knees and up, then they hung snugly around her waist. They had the absurd looking pockets at her thighs.

The _same_ brown short sleeve shirt that was not tucked in—woman or not, she should at least have the mannerism to tuck in her tail—then again, he had liked that about her.

The _same_ worn old traveling boots. They even still had had the _same_ fucking stains on them!

Her hair was the _same_ ; wild, outrageous, and untamed.

Her face, her eyes, all unaged; all the _same_.

 _Same_ as that day.

The boy leaned down, his elbows on his knees, his fingers tangling into his abnormally messy locks—courtesy of running his hands through it in frustration.

_How was that possible? Could—could he really have—?_

He could feel the wave of angry tears burning his eyes. His lips curled into a scowled. No! He did _not_ want to cry over her anymore. Not now. Not ever. There were too many wasted moments where he thought about _her_. He no longer wanted to be seduced by the childish notion of hope—hope that she would come back. _The hope that he_ —

He cannot believe he had broken down the way he had done in Potions. In front of the entire class no less! Even bloody Slughorn looked at him differently. He looked so weak! So pitiful! So _pathetic_! How dare she?! How dare she appear into his life again? He could _not_ let this happen again. He needed to _control_ —

"Mister Riddle," an old, wise voice cut off the thoughts brewing like a storm in his mind. "Professor Slughorn has mentioned that our—" the old codger paused, trying to think of the right name to call her. "—Guest, may be someone you know?"

The young wizard steeled himself before lifting his dark eyes up to Professor Dumbledore with a mask of mild indifference. He didn't want this man to see him weak. The old wizard waited patiently for answer. Tom swallowed thickly.

"No," he glanced away. "No, sir. I was mistaken."

.

.

.

He had no idea how he ended up here. Somehow, his long strides had brought him to the infirmary in the wee hours of the night. His lips were pulled into a scowl. He did _not_ want to be anywhere near this place.

He didn't want to be near her—Hermione or not.

But, as if he was under the Imperius curse, Tom reluctantly pushed open the doors as quietly as he could. Inside the dimly lit room was Hermione—the only occupant—lying in a cot in the corner with drapes cutting her off poorly to the rest of the room. He could see her chest slowly rising and falling through the gap between the sheers. Slowly, he had taken quiet steps across the stone floor. His heart was beating rapidly, thundering in his ears. He was sure it would wake up the entire school. Tom dipped into the drapes—refusing her look at her—and noticed a single chair at the side of the bed.

The damn wooden thing groaned under Tom's weight, only slightly, as he slowly sat himself down. He cringed at the noise. It echoed off the stone walls and he stilled. If the matron came out, it would land him in detention for being out of bed after curfew.

After a moment or two, Tom's body relaxed—well, not as much as he could have been. And it took him longer to lift his stormy hues to the sleeping woman in the cot.

Anger rose up inside of him.

How could this be?! She looked exactly like Hermione.

It just was _not_ possible!

She had _left_ —

He _had_ —

Finally, his eyes focused on her face. He leaned closer—just a bit—and a frown tugged at his lips as his eyebrows furrowed.

"I know you're awake," he murmured quietly—even though it seemed like the loudest sound in the world.

There was a moment or two and nothing happened. Tom thought maybe he was going insane. Crazy. She was driving him mad. But then she slowly opened her eyes, locking her tired gaze quickly with his.

Her— _same_ —brown eyes still held the warmth he had seen that day. The pent up feelings inside of him were brewing, bubbling over and he vaguely registered his shaking body. Her eyes were calm as they assessed him; flickering around to his eyes, his nose—they lingered for a moment—and then her scrutiny dropped to his hands. It was like she was searching for something.

Tom stiffened.

Her eyes stayed at his hands for a long time. Tom shifted slightly, his fingers gripping a fistful of his robes to keep him calm. Taking a deep, calming breath, he released the fabric. Her eyes snapped back to his face. She licked her chapped lips and spoke.

"You're so young," her voice was hoarse and quiet, her eyes seeming like she far, far away.

Damn it all, she even _sounded_ the same. Tom blinked. Surely she remembered something— _anything at all_ —of before. Something inside of him felt like it was slowly crumbling. Maybe… maybe this woman really wasn't her. _How could I be so stupid? Of course she isn't the same person._ _It is impossible!_

Tom immediately puffed up his chest and sat up straighter, his face keeping a cool, nonchalant mask.

"I'm thirteen," he started almost proudly. Her warm eyes softened slightly.

"You're in your third year?" She asked. He nodded slowly.

Her gaze shifted back to the ceiling, and then she closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Her whole body seemed to be shaking all of the sudden. The intakes of her breaths were loud and staggering. Tom's eyes widened and he leaned over to her, his hand gripping her too warm— _but cold?_ —shoulder.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?!" He was about the turn and grab Madam Pomfrey but her voice stopped him.

"It's happening again," she managed to say between her chattering teeth.

_Again?_

That was _impossible_.

"I don't know you," she murmured softly, her eyes opened and found his wide, panicked stare. "But maybe that it is because I haven't met you yet."

Tom's eyebrows knitted in confusion and then suddenly, he watched as she started to fade. " _No_! Please! Wait!" He all but leaped on the bed, grabbing frantically at anything he could hold on of her. The dissolving face smiled tiredly at him before her hand reached out and cupped his cheek.

"Don't worry. You'll see me again, Tom."

And then she was gone.

That confirmed it.

She was the _same_. 

.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is out of order for Tom, but in order for Hermione… if that makes any sense what so ever. I know you will all be confused, and even though this is categorized as a Romance, it's not your typical romance story. 
> 
> Thank you to each and every one of you lovely readers! It's so nice to see bookmarks, hits, comments, and kudos. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

  **II**

Hogwarts

Nineteen Fifty One

* * *

 

 

She was falling.

Tumbling.

The pain wasn't only clouding her mind.

But _bloody_ Tom Riddle as well.

Why, oh _why_ was she thrust into the years of Voldemort as a boy?

Riddle had even known her _name_.

Falling.

How could she possibly be so stupid?

Tumbling.

He looked so tormented.

So broken.

Falling.

But he was a _murderer_.

She braced herself.

.

.

.

Hermione was spat out into Merlin knows what time and smacked against something hard. Warm, but hard. Well, perhaps 'hard' wasn't the correct word. This felt nothing like the desk or the stone floor she collided with but with something…solid. Her body was leeching the warmth that it supplied.

By the Founders, did she want to sleep.

But she knew she couldn't do that. She had to figure out what was happening. Or at least a way to _make it stop._

She groaned, trying to will the buzz in her head to  _go away_. Her magic was crackling; like in a warning to whatever force that was tossing her to and fro; that it will learn that she certainly was her own force to be reckon with. Her nose buried into a soft—but scratchy—fabric, waiting the ringing in her ears to subside. She vaguely could hear the singing of birds, the rustling of leaves. Her unruly hair tickled against her cheek in the slight breeze.

She turned her head so her ear was resting against the warm, hard—yet soft—object as she sighed contently. Why couldn't her travels have ended as nicely as this?

_Thump. . . Thump. . . Thump. . ._

Her eyes snapped opened and her body went ridged; the heart beat was loud in her ears.

_Oh god_ —

And then, suddenly, a deep rumbling of laughter made the witch leap from the warm, hard—yet soft—surface with a startled yelp. She shivered at the baritone of a sound. Her eyes blurred around, her head protest profusely at the sudden movement, swimming, her body moving quickly as she could to scramble away from the warm, hard—yet soft— _thing_.

Only, it wasn't a just a thing—object—but it was a _person_ —

— _Fucking_ Tom Riddle.

Her wide, doe like, chocolate eyes landed on his—alight with a playful mirth and amusement and. . . was that bewilderment? His lips were pulled into the trademark Slytherin smirk. But—staring at him longer—his seemed like it was curled with an air of exuberance. There, in front of her, was the most evil man to live in her life time. How in the world could he look so—damn her for thinking it—beautiful? Salazar's descendant himself, the Prince, was sitting in the grass in front of Hogwarts entrance.

She simply stared. She stared at his face. Stared at his smirking, amused mouth. Stared at his immaculate—a little tousled now—hair. Stared at his neat professional robes. Stared at his hands—no rings. Just stared.

Gods, he was so much _older_ than the third year she had just seen. She didn't understand. She didn't _want_ to understand.

She hesitantly licked her chapped lips. "When—" she started to croak out, but he beat her to it.

"August 2, 1951. Sunday afternoon." That damn amused face certainly grew.

1951.

_1951._

_19 bloody 51!_

She stared some more.

Oh, Gods! Why?! She _really was_ leaping through time—she had a thought before. . . but this. . . this only confirmed her fears.

The panic must have been evident on her face because Riddle's own expression was pulled into a concerned frown and was on his feet, next to her. Then he wrapped his strong arms around her shaking frame. His musky pine scent over whelmed her. And Merlin—he was _warm._

_To close!_

Hermione immediately shoved his shoulders roughly, escaping his embrace and wildly scurried back further away from him. Her crest rose and fell rapidly, her hands fisting the lush grass beneath her. The force of everything happening to her finally was hitting her—weighing her down to her soul. Riddle's face was serious as he watched the girl shrivel into a panicked heap.

"Hermi—" His voice was cautiously tender.

" _NO_!" She shrieked.

He was supposed to have _disappeared!_ Dread filled her to her very bones. She didn't want to change the timeline! How many possibilities existed now? How many lives will _change?_ How many lives will _die?_

Her hands were over her ears; her wild bushy hair tumbling over her face. This was not the Golden Girl—Harry Potter's best friend. This was Hermione, a sniveling mess, who had just changed her and everyone else's entire _existence_ . Single handedly, by the way. She couldn't blame the murderous madman—that was _supposed_ to have happen, as awful as it was.

Her watery eyes opened and slowly shifted towards the standing wizard. His face was blank. A mask, carefully constructed to show nothing.

The only result to that was to further ignite her anger.

"W-what are you doing here?" She managed to form a decent volume for her hoarse words. He frowned.

"To make sure you're—"

"No, no." Hermione interrupted. His lips pulled into a hard line. "Why are you _here_? At Hogwarts?" Probably to try find a way to kill Dumbledore or something to that degree. Riddle's mask slightly shifted and an almost pleased—proud—expression seeped through.

"I'm going for my teaching position," his lips even curled at the corners. "For the Defense of the Dark Arts. "

Again, the staring.

_That_ was not _supposed_ to happen _either_.

His slight delighted expression morphed back into one of concern—the witch really wanted to hex right off—as he carefully kneeled in front of her. He hesitated, gently placing his hand on her tense shoulder.

"Do you know me?" His question was quiet, hushed, and most of all, apprehensive—like he was _terrified_ of her answer. Which answer, she had no idea.

Her eyes slid shut for a moment and took a deep breath before opening them again. His jaw locked, his vein slightly prodding at his temple, his intense dark eyes, his body stiff—on edge.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she managed to say in a whisper. _Voldemort,_ her mind supplied.

It was silent for a moment before a small, sad smile somehow graced his lips before he moved away and sat next to her without a response.

"Those wounds," he said softly after a few beats of silence, almost in a husky reluctant rasp. "I gave them to you, right?" He stared straight ahead, not glancing at her. Hermione heaved a sigh before she leaned back into the grass. She chose to ignore him.

"Do you know what is going on with me?" She whispered, not entirely sure if she was asking him or if she was just afraid to know the answer—

—which is saying something for the Know-It-All.

He turned slightly, placing his arm behind him and twisting so he was almost leaning over her. She refused to look at him. He sighed and leaned back on his other hand, away from her.

"I haven't seen you since then. Since 1945, in the Room of Requirement."

Well, that was certainly good news.

"What year did you just come from?" He asked, a blade of grass between his long, slender fingers.

At first, she didn't want to answer, but she did so anyway through bitten lips. "1940," she murmured. Awkwardly, she glanced over to him, studying his profile lazily. Why was she always so tired?

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispered. Hermione scoffed.

"Really now?" She bit out sarcastically. But Riddle shook his head; he looked so _defeated—_ exhausted _._

So _hurt_.

But this was _Voldemort_. He could be faking such an expression.

He _had_ to be faking it.

He reached out slowly and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself in place. Cool fingers trailed across her skin; under one of the quickly fading marks he had given her back in 1945. A small quake overtook her body and she suddenly felt herself become light again, like she was being lifted by this _damn_ uncontrollable force. Her magic crackled angrily with protest.

_Seriously?_

She wasn't quite sure if she was happy to get out of the awkward and serious moment with him or she was annoyed that she had to go through another round of traveling. Tom—who seemed much calmer than his younger part when he noticed her body's reaction—turned to her fully, leaning slightly over and fully cupped her cheek with a calloused hand; his face solemn. He was so warm. It felt heavenly against her cold and hot skin.

She was slipping.

"Hermione." Why was he so close?

Sinking.

"I need you to know," his breath ghosted across her lips. _Oh god_ —she watched him with wide, panicked eyes.

_What?_

Fading.

The last thing she felt other than the rioting buzz of her body was his lips gently pressed against hers.

And then she was falling.

.

.

.

I

.

.

.

Love

.

.

.

You

.

.

.

* * *

 Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty Two

* * *

 

 

The dark spots were fading from Hermione's wide eyes—staring at the familiar stone ceilings. _Again_. She finally slowly blinked.

Once.

Twice more.

Oh, my _god_ —

She slowly traced her numb fingers over her tingling lips, her heart banging against her rib cage.

The _hell_ —

What. . .  _what?_ What in the name of Merlin was _that?_ Tom Marvolo Riddle— _Voldemort!—_ kissed her. Damn it! She could still feel his warm lips! They were so soft, smooth, and. . . 

Her cheeks were flaming.

And. . . and. . . He told her that he. . . he. . . He. _Loved_. Her.

_What?_

The thought was _unfathomable_!

In a haze, Hermione slowly pulled herself to sit up against the wall in the empty corridor. What the hell was she _doing_ ? She was Hermione Granger! She was messing with time—destroying it. She had already altered her past—or present, whatever—but what she couldn't understand was _why_.

Why her?

Why Tom Riddle?

Why change time?

Considering that Voldemort left a damaging scar in the Wizarding World and even the Muggle World, it was not a surprise that someone wanted to change it. But she wasn't that someone. She knew bad things would happen to those who tampered with time. Even though she wouldn't wish Voldemort's wrath on anyone—enemy or not. So what was she going to do now?

Or. . . 

Has she already done it?

Hermione groaned and placed her head in her hands, trying to control her breathing through her nose.

Voldemort.

Voldemort.

_Voldemort._

No.

He wasn't quite Voldemort yet, was he? The lack of jewelry on his fingers said something. The caring strokes on her face—

Her head was swimming with thoughts, giving her a headache. She idly wondered if her timeline was still going on.

What were Harry and Ron doing? Did they notice her absence? Or were they entirely erased and placed with another Harry Potter—one whose parents did not die, with a god father, and a happy childhood? Another Ron Weasley? Well, he might still be stubborn, loves Quidditch, but whose homework would he copy? Who would argue with him logically? Was there even another Hermione Granger? Her heart felt heavy inside of her.

She was entirely alone here.

Well, no, that wasn't quite true—was it?

"Ah, Auror Granger! There you are."

Hermione lifted her head automatically at the sound of her name, but her brows furrowed in confusion. _Auror_? She was met with a sight of Professor Dumbledore.

Did he just call her _Auror_ Granger?

Besides him was Professor Slughorn, and another man who she didn't know—perhaps he was a professor as well. He was glaring darkly at her—his eyes spitting fire with a sneer on his lips in disgust. He was holding two students by the ears, but from her position on the ground, she couldn't quite see who.

Of course, she could guess by the way her magic buzzed around her.

"Lazing around on the job, _Auror_ Granger?" She was very well aware that the nameless professor practically spat the words. Was this something that her past—well, future—self did? She blatantly stared at the man, while getting to her feet and brushed the dirt from her trousers. Her eyes caught the sight of the snow gold hair—Abraxas—his face sneering at a handsomely dark haired boy—Tom. His incredibly dark eyes caught her own and she quickly shifted away, her face burning.

The faint brush of his lips against her own _—Merlin! Stop thinking about that!_

But then she blinked, peering at the two in scrutiny. Was that. . . mash on Tom's cheek? Pumpkin juice in Abraxas's hair? It was confirmed when it slide down his temple and then smell hit her nose.

Ignoring his obvious hatred stare, she lifted her head up and meet Dumbledore's knowing gaze.

"I do hope your mission went well—" Dumbledore said cheerfully. Sure, let's call her travels that. "It appears that you had came in at such an embarrassing matter."

"A whole hexing fiasco at lunch today, I'm afraid," Slughorn sighed.

She glanced at the two students—more at Draco's look-a-like and then around them. She was in front of the Headmaster's office.

"Oh." She stepped aside awkwardly, keeping her eyes to the ground. "Don't let me stop student discipline."

She dared to look up—

—Of course, her eyes quickly—and easily—met his.

Tom Riddle.

' _I love you.'_

Bloody hell.

.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello everyone! Welcome to the third installment of this story. There's not really much to this chapter—I'll be honest—and I had a very hard time for some reason to write the rest of it out. But I suppose it does have some purpose! 
> 
> Thank you everyone!

 

* * *

**III**

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty Two

* * *

 

She was avoiding him.

He could  _ not _ fathom why.

He was almost terrified she  _ knew _ —

No. If she did, the  _ Golden Girl _ would know what to do—

Every time he had tried to talk to her, look at her, or even be in the same god damn room as her, she would flee. Run and hide. With a stony face, he'd watch her retreating back with one word echoing in his mind:  _ Why? _

He tried not to let it affect him. He really did try. He didn't need silly sentiments. Not now. Not ever. But, as if he had not one  _ ounce _ of self control, those damn emotions boiled inside of him like a toxic venom, killing him slowly;  _ burning. _

It had been a  _ year _ since he had seen her last; his only friend.

Well, his  _ only _ real friend.

Tom snorted.

Many students, regardless of House, would try to talk to him, try to snag his attention, and he would be polite and reply, sit in the front of the class and let whoever sit themselves down next to him. Why? Possibly it was because he needed to fill the void that was left every time she had traveled. And not just one person could fill it. So he would strive. For perfection. For good marks. For praise. For glory. For love?

No. No one was allowed to have his love. Not even Hermione.

But— _ damn it all! _ He ran a slender hand through his hair in frustration. It was difficult dealing with the oddity of her. She wasn't like anyone he had met in his entire existence. It seemed like every time she had popped into his life, she was a completely different person. One year, she is his everything, the next she's claiming she had absolutely no idea who he was, then she is freely laughing and comfortable—like she should be; but now she's avoiding him.

Salazar, she was infuriating some times.

He gritted his teeth.

Perhaps if he could have controlled  _ himself _ , this wouldn't have  _ happened _ —

—Alas, his dark eyes landed on the back of her ridiculously wild hair. She was in the back of the library, where none venture to, surrounding herself with thick heavy tomes and books. Cautiously, he circled around, far away to just seem like a passing of shadows. When he had stepped closer to inspect, her brows were furrowed, and her little pink lip was trapped between nibbling teeth.

It was clear that she was confused and annoyed. Whatever the witch was looking for, she wasn't having the most pleasant research. Sneaky and silently, Tom slid himself in a chair across the table, trying not to alert her of his presence at first—he didn't want her to run. It had been so long since he had sat down with her, so close, yet it seemed like she was just the memory of his Hermione.

She didn't stir at all when he was fully seated in front of her, bluntly staring. She was still biting her lip—he was surprised it wasn't gnawed off by now. Even though her posture seemed relaxed, with her leg tucked under her and her arms loosely around her, it was her fingers tightly holding onto the book, back tense, and her face pulled into a troubled expression told Tom that she wasn't at all pleased.

"Hermione," might as well get to the point.

He watched with some amusement as she comically jerked in her seat, her eyes changing from irately narrowed to widening in surprise. The book was snapped shut and her jaw ticked for a moment when she gained some of her composure. Her amber eyes blazed for a moment, as if she was contemplating—probably thinking of escaping him again—much to his chagrin.

He was mildly surprised when she stayed put in her seat; however her back was too straight and her knuckles were clutching the closed tome a little too tightly.

"Riddle," she said tightly.

Merlin, Awkward Hermione was utterly  _ exasperating _ . It was getting old very,  _ very _ quickly.

"To what do I owe for such a greeting?" He simply pinned her with a stare—there was no more reason to be polite—friendly—like he had been before since that gave her room for evasion. She was not going to run now— _ not _ until she gave him a few answers.

The complex witch in front of him stared at him with eyes wide and brows arched upwards. After a minute of silence, she leaned back into the chair and her shoulder deflating with a defeated sigh.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean. . ." She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath through her nose. "Things are just—a bit—complicated with. . ." she trailed off, looking towards the side. Well, anything  _ but _ him. He could hear the nonexistent 'you' at the end of her sentence and snorted. "Some matters," she muttered off after a few seconds of silence. Awkward Hermione chanced a glance to him, her cheeks tinging pink before clearing her throat and looking away. She sat up and quickly collected her tomes.

Fear tugged at him.

Was it  _ possible _ —

_ No. _

Tom's hand lashed out, placing it heavily on top on the last text on the table she was reaching for. He was fixed with a heated glare after she flinched.

"I don't understand," he bit out. "You leave, and I haven't seen you in a year, and you come back like a complete stranger and avoiding me like I am the plague," he snarled. His magic crackled around in as his anger crossed his face, but a small bit of  _ panic _ bubbled inside of him. He needed to calm down, but he couldn't control—not with all this bullshite she was leading on.

Awkward Hermione did not move. The two stared, energy sparking around them before her face faltered—softened—as she sighed once more.

"It's not you—well, I mean," she stammered.

Tom let out an annoyed growl.

"And how  _ exactly _ is that _ my _ fault?" he snarled. She seemed taken aback for a moment, before leaning an elbow on the table and rubbed her hand tiredly over her face.

"I know, I know." She mumbled. "It's just—you were  _ older. . . _ " She shook her head, her wild hair following her erratic movements. "It's not your fault. I know that—but just looking at you. . ." She trailed off once more, her face growing hot.

Tom felt his irritation subside slowly, simmering down as he took a deep breath.

"Yes, well," Tom drawled a bit, his smooth lips slowly pulled into a reluctant smirk. "That guy can be a real pain in the arse."

Awkward Hemione glanced at him; her face blank for a moment before she snorted out a breathy chuckle. "Quite."

His eyes flickered to the many books around her scattered on the table, his face closed off with a frown on his lips. "You won't find anything in them," his slightly octave voice mumbled, looking pointedly at one of the books. "I haven't came across anything that will get you home."

He chanced a glance at her face—

Her eyes looked far away again, longingly and sad. Her posture had slumped in defeat. She sighed. "I'm still going to try."

He ignored the wave of guilt and loneliness that washed over him.

.

.

.

She had been trying her  _ damned _ hardest to just  _ stay away _ . She had always felt his gaze—those dark, piercing eyes that made her shudder. She remembered those eyes looming down at her, filled with such emotions that she couldn't even begin to understand. She could almost see them every time she shut her eyes. She had always heard his voice—silky smooth, and so full of hope and desperation, buried under his even tone that made her muscles freeze. She remembered when he had whispered to her, what he  _ had to let her know. _ Merlin, she was glad he didn't touch her. She was certain that she wouldn't be able to handle the tingle in her skin and the riot in her stomach that would certainly multiply.

But the boy that was sitting across from her now, she knew that he wasn't  _ him _ .

He was just a boy.

The affection in his eyes was just that; affection. There wasn't any of the storming emotion she had seem in the 1951 Tom.

Hermione let out a breath through her nose and lowered her head.

At least—there wasn't any of those emotions  _ yet _ .

She watched him talk excitedly for the past hour. The mask had melted from his face as he freely smiled, smirked, and scowled. His voice was as smooth as ever, but the hurried words jumbling together made her smiled, almost forgetting what she was doing in the library in the first place.

Almost.

She had gotten nowhere near an explanation and that infuriated her to no end. She needed to know what was happening to her, and how to make it stop and go back home.

If there was a home to go back to.

She shook her head slightly.  _ No, don't think about it. _

"—and then I was appointed a Perfect—"

"Ah, Riddle. Gloating by yourself, are you? Did no one want to listen to you today?" A cold sharp voice cut Tom off abruptly. The boy had immediately slipped the blank mask on and his back was ramrod straight. Someone had stepped out of the shadows and Hermione found herself stiffening. It was the Draco impostor.

"Malfoy," greeted Tom in a hostile calmness.

Hermione blinked for a moment. This was a spitting image of Draco—albeit with longer hair that was pulled back. Merlin, how could she have not made the connection sooner? Perhaps all this traveling was wearing on her intelligence. Malfoy regarded Tom with arctic eyes before lifting an eyebrow towards Hermione. His face was pulled from the sneer and to a small, conniving smirk.

"Auror Granger," the malicious voice was gone and replaced with a pleasant and polite tone. His eyes flickered to Slytherin across from her and then back. "Pleasure to see you here," he was undoubtedly laying the charm on thick.

She tried very hard not to glare at him. Biting the inside of her cheek, the witch straightened herself up in her chair. "Hello Mister Malfoy," she replied tonelessly.

He smirked at her, lurking around the table. The closer he was getting to her, the more she felt suffocated. Magic crackled around her in such ferocity that it almost made her choke. She noticed Malfoy's eye twitch in annoyance before shooting a glare towards Tom—who was leaning forward with his nonchalant and emotionless mask in place.

Merlin, that was  _ Riddle _ ?

_ Voldemort. _

Herimone quickly interjected. "Is there something that you need, Mister Malfoy?" She asked quickly, keeping her tone strictly polite.

"Perhaps not, Auror Grang—"

"Since there doesn't seem to be an emergency, then I must be going." She rose from her chair, flicking her wrist to send the books back to their spot among the shelves. "Come along Mister Riddle, I will answer your question as best as I can while I'm on my way."

Tom, gracing her with a small smirk at her white lie, gracefully rose up, and dusted his robes off before following his friend. Malfoy stammered unlike a proper Pureblood before he locked his jaw and glared at Riddle.

Once they were out of the library, Tom matched his longs strides with Hermione in the empty corridors.

She paused for a moment, running her slender fingers through her unruly hair. "Tom," she started. The boy—she refused to think of him as a man, even if he was taller than her—turned his head towards her and rose his perfect eyebrow. "Do you know the dates that I—erm—return?" She managed to ask awkwardly.

Riddle was quiet for a moment—she almost didn't think he would answer her— before he gave a curt nod and about faced, heading down the hall. The witch rolled her eyes at his dramatics and followed. He took them down to the dungeons, where Hermione had used the  _ Disillusionment Charm _ on herself. Tom had spoke to the portrait, which swung open easily into the common room. There were a few Slytherins playing Wizards Chess, while some were around the fire and scribbling with their quills on parchment. They glanced up and greeted Tom, who gave them a curt nod. She followed the boy to his dorm, which was thankfully empty.

Her eyes glanced around the place as Riddle was removing a few charms and spells from his trunk at the foot of the bed. It seemed cold. Nothing like the Gryffindor Tower she was so used to. Silver and forest green surrounded her. It felt— _ lonely _ .

"Here," Riddle's voice was quiet, soft even, and he was flipping through a black bounded journal—

— _ Oh god. _

_ The Diary. _

She stared at it. It didn't radiate dark magic. It didn't beckon her over with sweet, sinister promises to  _ kill.  _ It didn't whisper to her with cruel, harsh words of her  _ blood— _

He thrust out small piece of parchment that he ripped out from the book. Hermione's eyes flickered over Tom's hasty script.

_ April 22, 1933 _

_ Good Merlin _ —1933? She glanced a look at Tom, who was oddly keep a fixed hard stare at the floor. He must have been so  _ young _ .

_ October 15, 1940 _

_ December 28, 1940 _

_ April 3, 1941 _

_ March 24, 1942 _

"Those are the dates," Tom mumbled. Her eyes flickered over the numbers, trying to find a pattern. Her lips pursed and her brow furrowed. Hermione gently took the quill from Tom's fingers before writing  _ 1945 _ and  _ August 2, 1951 _ . Tom's dark eyes widen a little before look at her again. "When in 1945?"

Hermione only shrugged. "I wasn't there long enough."

"What about 1943 and 1944?" Tom inquired insistently.

"I'm not quite sur—"

The rush of what felt like snow flooded into her bones and lava over her skin forced the woman to slide to one knee. It was back—the force gripping her and her magic seemed to hiss in protest. Tom urgently gripped her elbow with his strong  _ warm _ hand.

"It's happening, isn't it?" He whispered. Shivering, Hermione looked up at him with a small sad smile on her quivering lips.

"It is."

He looked down and swallowed. "Does it hurt?"

Hermione shook her head, making her dizzy with such a small movement. "Not at all," she lied.

Tom frowned.

"I'll see you soon," she whispered. Tom could only nod.

And then she was falling.

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All those questions that you might have will be answered. . . in the last chapter. But I'm sure many of you have guessed what is going on. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

**IV**

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty

* * *

 

 

She was falling.

Something didn't feel right.

Tumbling.

Heat engulfed her.

It burned.

_Too much._

She fell into angry darkness.

.

.

.

It was cold. And hot. She didn't quite understand. Freezing toes, burning fingers. And Tired. So very tired.

Beyond exhausted, really. She felt _empty_.

"—iss Granger? Can you hear me?" A voiced asked her, sounding far away.

She managed to dignify the question with a groan.

Slowly, she cracked open her eyes, barely registering Albus Dumbledore's concerned face. She idly glanced around, frowning; she was in the Hospital Wing.

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired again. "Are you awake, my dear?"

_Awake?_

She had never been unconscious for a travel before. She could handle the violent, painful, manhandling of _whatever_ had brought her here. But it had felt different— _darker—_ last time.

Hermione slowly shifted her gaze back to her younger Headmaster.

"H-how long hav—" she was cut off by an aggressive shuddering spasm of her body. Her fingers clutched to the sheets desperately and her jaw locked. It was not a travel; more like the rioting _—protesting—_ of her magic—which was something that was always happening as of late, but this felt _worse_ —She managed to gulp in some air before the outburst just faded away, like it was nothing. The wizard next to her had placed a vile to her lips and she drank it greedily. At once, her body sagged and her racing mind was slowing down; Calming Draught. It seemed that Dumbledore knew what she needed.

"You've been unresponsive for about four days—"

_Days?_

The witch didn't hear anything else from the Professor's mouth. _Four days_ . She had _never_ been in a time for as long as that—the time between travels were _hours_.

Suddenly, she sat up quickly, starting Dumbledore, and her brain, from the way her head swam.

"Wh-what's the date," her hoarse voice whispered urgently. The Professor gazed at her with his knowing twinkling eyes.

"December 20th, 1940," he stated rather calmly. "It seems to me that you have been on quite a trip." He reached over and gently patted her hand. "Come to my office when you are well and ready. I trust you know the way?" She could only nod mutely. When he had turned away, Hermione licked her lips nervously and opened her mouth.

"Professor. . . is," she paused for a moment as he turned to inspect her. "Is Tom Riddle here for the holidays?" She asked quietly. Dumbledore only rose a brow.

"I do believe so."

She took a deep breath. "Would you please send for him?" Her voice was meek. She understood that the two had obvious tension, but she was desperate.

He was the only solid being that she was at ease with—that she found comfort in.

 _Voldemort_.

She needed Tom Riddle. He was there for every one of her 'travels.' It must have been a sign. It was the only concrete piece of information she knew.

Those twinkling eyes were no more as he regarded her coolly. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded. "Of course, Miss Granger."

.

.

.

The last thing on Tom Riddle's mind was the festivities. It's not like he received any Christmas gifts.

But the front, and foremost prominent— _dominating_ — thought was her. Hermione.

It had been two months since he had seen her. How long was it going to been when he saw her again? It had been six gaping _years_ since she returned to him in this damned place. The only person who had cared for him— the only person he was _happy_ to see. And she was gone. But for how long? Another six years? Why didn't she remember him?

_'I don't know you, but maybe that it is because I haven't met you yet.'_

Those _damn_ words haunted him for countless nights. He remembered the orphanage, seeing Hermione there, comforting, telling him _he was wonderful_ . And then she faded to the confused, bleeding woman in Potions, claiming he was mistaken. Then those _blasted_ words would echo against every thought of his mind. The boy had thought of countless ways how— _bloody how_ —does he make her _stay_ ? Stay with him in one, consistent _year_ . How does he make her _remember_ ? He needed to _control_ his—

A knock on the dorm room's door interrupted his thoughts as a sixth year Perfect stuck his head inside.

"Riddle?" He called out. "Professor Slughorn says you're needed in the Hospital Wing."

His blood ran cold.

What?

But he hadn't done _anything_ to _anyone_ —

"Said it was rather urgent, he did" the Perfect continued, and then he scrunched his face a bit, like he was trying to remember— "Said something like Hermit was asking for you."

Tom's dark eyes widen.

_Hermione._

.

.

.

Swift, rapid foot falls caused the witch to raise her head from her book a wonderful house elf had fetched for her. A small smile curled on her lips as Tom, a bit disheveled from his run, filled the arch way of the Hospital Wing.

He stared at her; panting and frozen on the spot.

She let her eyes roam over him: long slender fingers stained with ink, wavy soft looking hair a mess, dark eyes wide and trained on her.

"You're back. . ." he whispered.

Her warm smile only grew. "Hello Tom." There once was a time she would have spat in his face if she had the chance, and danced on his grave, perhaps even killed him herself—but not anymore. Not if she was changing him.

The boy slowly walked over, slumping into the chair Dumbledore had just occupied. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture.

"How are you feeling?" He asked awkwardly; his eyes lingering one of the marks he had given her in 1945—well, the older Tom.

"I'm alright, just tired," she mumbled. "But I wanted to at least see you, before I, _erm_ , leave again. I can imagine you must have some questions and I can try my best to answer them."

Tom was quiet for a moment; jaw locked, eyes questioning, posture too straight, leaning _away_ —

"Are you—" he looked down. "Are you really Hermione?"

The witch nodded. "Yes, but not in the way you remember me," she took a deep breath and exhaled. "I suppose I've already told you," she mumbled under her breath, thinking of the Tom in 1942—she didn't know how she was keeping them all straight. She looked up to him with determination. "I think leaping through time," she whispered quietly, keeping her eyes locked with his. "The sequence of how you've met me are out of order of how I've met you. Does that make sense?"

Tom seemed ridged, but then nodded sharply once.

"But those who tamper with time— Tom, the consequences are unimaginable, but without a doubt unpleasant," she paused. Perhaps that was why her traveling felt much different—harsher—than it had before. It was evident that she was changing the time line—changing Tom himself. She smiled a little at that. It felt as if she was _saving_ him.

Her eyes were slowly drooping; the Calming Draught the Professor had given her was finally forcing her to succumb. When Tom had noticed the change in her, he was on his feet in an instant.

"You're leaving? No, you just got here—"

Hermione actually laughed.

"No, no. I'm just so _tired_." Her drowsy gaze lingered on him. "I wanted to see you, just in case I moved to a different year." Her finger brushed his knuckles, before she was snuggling herself against the hospital cot and yawned. "G'night Tom."

Tom's stare lingered on her.

She ignored the way her magic rioted around her.

.

.

.

When she had awoke Merlin knows how long later, Tom was gone. Apparently by the mumbling of Madam Pomfrey, the Slytherin had tried to persuade her to let him stay until Hermione woke up. But she had managed to shoo him off to class.

Slowly, Hermione sat up, her body stiff and her magic was simply _humming_ around her. She groaned, holding her head as she slipped off the cot.

"And where might you be off to, Miss Granger?" A voice gently called out to her.

Jumping slightly, the witch turned to find Professor Dumbledore peering at her through half moon speckles.

"I had realized that I had failed to give you a time for our meeting," Dumbledore was saying casually, his hands tucked into the long sleeves of his bizarre robes. "Is now a good time?" Dumbledore didn't seem to wait for her to answer as he turned on the spot and was on his way out of the Hospital Wing. Hermione could only follow him silently. She didn't know when she was going to travel again, and if there was a way to get her home permanently then Dumbledore would know.

At least she hoped he would.

They had walked down to the Transfiguration class room— more like Hermione hobbled and the Professor walked patiently slow along with her. Once they were inside his office, she had slumped against the chair across his desk and sighed. She felt stiff from being on bed rest and it felt wonderful to move—

"I trust you are feeling well?" the Professor asked, sitting himself in his own seat. When she nodded, Dumbledore continued. "Then, perhaps, you can enlighten the situation?" He pushed forward a small glass jar of yellow rounded, what she believed as candies, towards her. "Lemon drop?"

Hermione shook her head with a slightly amused snort. "No, thank you." She then took a deep breath. "Professor, this is going to sound preposterous, but I need you to believe me—no matter how impossible it may sound." She fixed her only Headmaster with a grave stare. "I am from the year 2001, and I have absolutely have no idea how I ended up here." When the old wizard only stared at her for an uncomfortable passing of seconds, Hermione's notorious big mouth launched into random facts in hope that he will believe her. "I was accepted into Hogwarts when I was eleven in 1991 and sorted into Gryffindor. I am a Muggleborn, completed my O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s," she didn't mention the war, but scrambled for any information that was safe to give him. "My best friends are Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and my patronus is an otter. Honestly, sir, I don't know what is happening but the only thing I do know is that I'm going through time, and possibly changing it," she whispered that last part, ending up biting her lip again. "I was hoping you would know something, Professor. Help me in any way to get me back home. Back to _my_ time."

_If it still exists._

Dumbledore was quiet for some time, and Hermione thought he didn't believe her for a moment. She was about to open her mouth again and spew out the most _random_ facts about himself—

"I'm afraid you overestimate me, Miss Granger. I certainly will try to help, but the results might be disappointing," he finally said. She blinked, simply staring at him for a beat or two and then sighed in relief. He _believed_ her. But she couldn't help that her heart plummeted when he spoke those words. _There might be nothing he could do._ "It appears that you are not included in our wards, since these last few times you have entered and left without a trace. I hope you don't mind, but I had explained to Headmaster Dippet that you were an Auror with a malfunctioning portkey."

Hermione found herself smiling. "I don't mind in the least," her smile had faded. She slumped in her chair, leaning her elbow on the mahogany wood, and her face in her hand. "But are you sure there is nothing you can do?"

"Was it a time turner?" he asked instead.

"I. . . No. At least I don't have one with me. The travels are at random and can happen at any time without my control."

He was silent for a moment, pondering. "What were you doing before all of this had began?" Dumbledore simply asked. "Perhaps something you have done in you time had cause a trigger to send you here," he elaborated.

She wanted to roll her eyes and scoff at him in frustration. This wasn't how she planned this conversation to go. Of course she had already thought—

Hermione suddenly sat straight up in her seat.

What _was_ she doing before this?

Her breaths were increasing quickly as she tried to grip a solid, decent memory—

"Deep breaths, Hermione," Dumbledore said calmly. "How about starting with what you do remember." He popped a rounded lemon sweet into his mouth.

Trembling, Hermione shut her eyes, taking in air through her nose, sorting out the mess her mind was in.

She remembered Harry. She remembered Ron. She remember horcrux hunting with them. She remembered the Final Battle, finally ending that war Voldemort had reign. She remembered helping to rebuild Hogwarts. She remembered attending for her Seventh year. She remembered restoring her parents memories. She remembered becoming an Unspeakable. She remembered her first case. She remembered solving it. She remembered. . . 

What happened after that?

Suddenly, the painful grip around her caused her to choke in a breath, her body shuddering violently. Dumbledore, looking alarmed, rushed to his feet, wand out—

—and then she was falling.

.

.

.

* * *

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty One

* * *

 

 

Her back collided with a dull _thud_ against the ground. Her magic was rioting, buzzing—warning—

" _Stupefy!_ "

The witch's instincts immediately had her rolling away quickly and on her feet. Her body was shaking—spasms— from her jump through time as she gasped for her breath. In front of her was the Professor that was glaring at her with hatred from 1942. She blinked in disbelief when he gave her warm, welcoming smile.

"Oh! Auror Granger! My, my! You gave us all quite a fright, appearing as you did."

She just gaped at him, jaw a bit unhinged and her brows furrowed.

Briefly, she scanned the student's all around her, and then she had noticed she was on a dueling platform. She caught Tom's eyes, which were alight.

"Well, don't just stand there, dear," the Professor's voice forced Hermione to focus back to him. "Up you go. Are you well? Shall we demonstrate for the students?" He started to shoo the children away, talking merrily just like Professor Slughorn. Once the students were all a 'safe' distance back, he had turned back to her. "Wands up!"

Hermione sputtered. "W-wait. I don't hav—"

Another round of _stupefy_ soared in her direction with precise accuracy and speed.

With wide eyes, she leaped out of the way again. Her magic was bubbling by this point, and Hermione's fingers twitched. _Accio wand!_

The wands had answered back to her magic's aid and she called the most immediate one in range. Quickly leaping out of the way, Hermione's hands wrapped around a wand. Swiftly, she threw up a shield against another round of his relentless attacks. Gods, she didn't even _know_ who this man _was_. But he was fast—very fast— and well aimed harmless jinxes. She could just barely keep up in her sluggish state. Being on the run, and fighting for her life was a bit different than throwing tickling hexes at each other. She kept her eyes on his wand work, narrowing when she notice him slipping spells after spells.

She rolled her eyes.

He was just _showing off_.

Quickly, the witch changed from her defense to something a bit different.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

The light that erupted from the wand was far too bright—unnaturally so.

The professor blinked as the white light swallowed him, blinding him. As her silvery otter swam around the Professor, she quickly launched.

 _Avis!_ _Oppugno!_

The flock of angry birds followed suit of her patronus, swarming the bigoted man.

She when slashed her arms, aiming for the Profoessor's legs. _Tarantallegra!_

She brandished her birds, and her otter dived into the sea of students, who were giggling of their spontaneously dancing professor. His face was probably the most comical. Wide eyes, face red, mouth sputtering. She decided to show him mercy. _Finite!_

"I think that's all for now, Professor. It's been quite a trip."

The man, who was now out of breath, stared at her. "Well," he cleared his throat. "That's rather impressive for a half-blood. I am indeed getting old!"

Hermione froze.

_What?_

Her eyes somehow glanced around the crowded students, some looking down in _shame_ —

She bristled.

_Impressive for a half-blood._

The Professor had clasped his hands together, speaking to the students like there was nothing wrong with his comment, but she didn't hear a word of it. Her magic buzzed around her again—warning— as she glared at him. She vaguely heard him dissmiss the class and Hermione sent the wand back to it's Ravenclaw's owner. Tom lingered in the room, his dark eyes trained on her, but she didn't noticed him. All she had the sight for was the Professor. A student in Slytherin robes walked in, not even gracing her with a glance in her direction and started a haughty conversation with the man.

She felt Tom's hand on her shoulder.

"Hermione," his voiced hissed.

The Professor laughed at something the older student had said.

"—and the _mudbloods_ —"

She saw red.

Her body was quaking.

And the very next moment with very little thinking on her part—the Gryffindor in her—suddenly opened her supposedly notorious big mouth. "Excuse me, sir," she suddenly called out, effectively halting the man's preach. The two looked down at her, eye brows furrowed. She could feel herself slipping again, but she was gritted her teeth defiantly.

_Not yet._

She ignored Tom's squeezing fingers.

"I believe you had just lost a duel to a _mudblood_ —"

Her magic soared.

And then she was falling.

.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has occurred to me, after letting the story write itself, that this is not a typical romance. Tom loves Hermione, yes, and she may love him. Perhaps not in the same way, but we never truly get find out. ;)

 

  


* * *

**V**

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty Four

* * *

 

 

She was falling.

No, that wasn't the right word.

She was _plummeting_.

Her stomach felt like it was in her throat.

Her head felt like it was going to split in two.

Her body was violently being pulled in every angle.

_When will it stop?_

.

.

.

She flopped into a dark room without an ounce of grace, vaguely feeling the silky sheets under her numb, tingling, fingertips. There was a looming pressure over her—the unknown force—intimidating, oppressing, _threatening_ her to _submit._

She choked in a breath.

It was like it didn't want her to think—didn't want her to solve this ugly, tormenting _mind game_.

A door clicked open.

The pressure suddenly dissipated.

"Hermione?" A deep, familiar voice called out to her. Slowly, the witch turned her head towards the sound. Half lidded eyes landed on a baffled Tom Riddle. An older, _shirtless_ Tom Riddle. A blush managed to color her cheeks before she promptly looked away, clearing her throat. She was laying perfectly on a large four poster bed; her head on the pillows and toes tucked in. The dark green duvet didn't seem all that disturbed with wrinkles from her abrupt intrusion. 

"I—I'm sorry to barge in like this," she murmured sarcastically, wishing that her body will respond to her brain, which was screaming _move_! She glanced at him again.

She blushed.

He smirked.

Forcing herself to keep a firm, fixed stare at the wall, she managed to sit up, swinging her legs over the side and purposely kept her back to him.

What _exactly_ was happening to her? How was it even happening?

If she could _just_ remember something— _anything_ —

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to whoever was willing to listen, for this to end. She was utterly exhausted—completely spent. Sometimes she wondered how her eyes were able to stay open. Her magic was always _hissing_ around her; like she was being _threatened_ . And being thrown around over and over again was physically and mentally demolishing. She couldn't think straight. She couldn't remember what she had done—what was so incredibly  _stupid_ of her to do—

A warm knee nudged hers.

Tom, clad in a shirt, sat next to her on the edge of the bed. His expression was full of concerned, but twitched with curiosity and even hidden touch of guilt.

She gulped.

He placed a hand on hers.

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.

And then she broke.

With a rather pathetic display of her emotions clashing in a chaotic mess, she choked out a sob before completely melting into tears. She curled into Tom, who seemed startled, and awkwardly placed his arm around her shoulder, patting in comfort.

She felt liked she needed him.

He was the solid, most independent, stationary person in this situation.

She needed the force to leave her alone.

She needed her magic to clam down.

She needed to feel full again, and not just an empty shell.

She needed to feel restored, to sleep.

She needed to go back home.

Merlin, she needed _Tom_.

She was so caught up in her childish wants and dependence and even trying to feel herself again that she hadn't _really_ focused on Tom. She was searching through texts of time, theories, and documents, that she completely missed the crucial evidence—a piece of the puzzle.

Tom himself.

She _needed_ him.

She felt lips against her hair, his soft, soothing voice shushing her softly.

It took her some time to realize just what, exactly, she was doing; sobbing in Tom Riddle's lap of all things. But the somewhat future Dark Lord did not seem to mind as he tried combed through her frizzy mess of hair in comfort.

She had quieted down after some time, which found them both laying down on his large Head Boy bed. Hermione still had her back to him, but he had laid himself against her back in a constant line of warmth. He tucked his arm under her neck, and the other was idly rubbing patterns on her side.

And she was just too tired to process their current position to care.

"Do you miss them?" He quietly asked her, his breath tickling her ear. "Your friends? Family?"

Sleepily, Hermione nodded, tracing lightly with her fingertips against his pale forearm. "Every day."

Tom's long, strong arm tightened around her waist protectively— _possessively_. "I'm sorry," he rasped with a strained voice.

She snorted quietly. "It's not your fault I'm traveling, Tom," she mumbled sleepily, her eyes fluttering shut.

Tom's arms stiffened as he buried his face into her wild bushy hair, keeping silent. Hermione took in a quick breath and her eyes snapped opened as she felt the familiar push and pull of the force.

"I'm so sorry."

And then she was falling.

.

.

.

* * *

 

Wool's Orphanage

Nineteen Thirty Three

* * *

 

 

She could barely breathe. The force had just left. Her body tingled; her magic sizzled.

_I'm so sorry._

Bloody hell. _Tom Knew something._

Anger clawed through her veins.

But why didn't he _tell her_?

Hot, furious, tears flooded her eyes.

 _Merlin_ so _help_ her—when she found him next—

Her eyes opened with a fierce determination, ready to hex Riddle a new one when she stopped suddenly. Confusion knit her brow as she took in her surroundings.

 _Where_ was she?

She had always been in Hogwarts. But there was no extravagant, ancient stone walls, warm plush rugs, enchanted moving portraits, the linger of magic—

—it was old, musty wooden floors, a lumpy cot in the corner, a too large, scratched up wardrobe, and a tiny little side table with a lamp and a few books, and it smelled _stale_. There was a small window which rain spiked against vigorously, giving in barely enough light to see, but when lightening struck, it lit the entire small, little room.

Hermione heard what sounded like a dull thud after the thunder had rumbled away, before hard staggering steps sounded like they were coming from outside of the door. Quickly, she pressed herself in the corner of the room near the door just when it had burst open, banging against her aggressively. She bit her lip from crying out.

Someone else whimpered.

"Shut the 'ell up, boy," hissed a slurred gruff voice. "I know it wer' you—you _demon_."

Hermione held her ragged breath. She had no idea what was going on, and she could not see a damn thing! Suddenly, there was a sickly snap—a thud, something causing the small night table to screech across the floor before it toppled over.

The man spat again.

" _Disgusting_."

The door was slammed shut—the man leaving—and Hermione stared at a small lump in the darkness.

Dear _Merlin._

That lump was a child. A boy, who looked like the age of no older than nine was curled into himself next to the night table that was turned over, books and a pencil laid around him. She was unable to look away. Her eyes wide trained in the dark room, never leaving the small form of the boy. In the back of her mind—even deep in her gut—she knew who it was, but she refused to believe it.

It couldn't be.

He managed to sat up, sniffing and wiping at his nose with his too longed sleeve. He winced quietly.

She uprooted her feet, taking a hesitant step forward, and the wooden floor groaning as she put her weight cautiously down. The child froze, daring not even a breath. Hermione stood there, stationary as well. Slowly, ever so slowly, the mass of what looked like black ruffled hair moved towards her, a bruised face exposed to the woman. Child-like large, watering, eyes stared up at her.

Her heart froze.

Sweet Godric.

_"Tom."_

She didn't mean to say his name, but it just tumbled from her lips.

She saw him shake and Hermione lifted her hands up in the air, showing him she meant no harm. She took another step towards Tom, and found herself kneeling down next to him. The small child's breathing was labored, and it was like his fear was reeling from his shaking body.

"Wh—who. . . are y-you?" The boy demanded, wheezed out a whisper. She stared at him for a moment; this was the first time he had met her. Hermione then shook her head slightly, pressing her finger to her lips, signaling him to be quiet.

Tenderly, she brushed his hair out of his face, and he tensed immensely. She paused her movements before running her fingers gently through the matted locks. After a moment, he started to relax slowly.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she whispered ever so quietly. "I promise."

His eyes never left her face, still cautious of the strange woman, but he allowed his body to lean into her comforting touch.

Her heart swelled. This was the orphanage. So was why she had meant so much to Tom? Her eyes lingered over his face, over the swelling bruise. He needed medical attention, but she doubt that whoever ran this place with give Tom the time of day. Without a wand, she couldn't do much, and she couldn't bear to leave him to find any sort of medical supplies.

Her fingers rubbed soft, gentle circles in Tom's hair. Slowly, they slid down to his temple and she could feel him stiffening each second.

"Do you mind?" she asked quietly, keeping her fingers still. He had moved slightly to look at her; his lips pulled into a stubborn line and his haunting eyes held hers for a long moment. Slowly, he nodded and Hermione found herself smiling. She ghost her hand over his bruised cheek and her eyes closed. Focusing her magic into her hand, she took a deep breath and whispered, " _episkey_."

A faint gold yellow glow coated the palm side of her hand as the magic swirled from her to Tom's injured cheek.

When she had opened her eyes, the little boy was watching her with wide eyes filled with a little fear and wonder. When she looked at his cheek, she frowned—it didn't seem to do much.

"How does that feel?"

Chubby, child fingers had quickly pressed into the still bruised cheek without hesitance. His lips pulled into the tiniest of smiles.

"How'd you do that?"

Hermione laughed softly and wiggled her fingers.

"Magic."

.

.

.

Riddle would fly through the house—she could hear his scampering all the way from his room—and he'd yanked the door opened. Out of breath, he frantically looked around until his eyes landed on hers. She had been here for a week. There was no heat, no cold, no slipping, no falling. For an entire week, she resided in Tom's room, casting 'Notice Me Not' charms when someone else had entered. But Tom had always knew. When he'd rush in, it was like he'd pick up her magic pattern and stare at the space Hermione was, grinning to himself that he was able to find her. When she canceled the charm, he'd launch into questions, his eyes filled with fascination and curiosity.

There were times where he would sulk in, saying he was being punished for something he didn't do. Of course, Hermione would ask what happened and he would go on some story that in the end, the other children would blame him for the windows shattering when he was angry, when Tom claimed he didn't do such a thing. Times like these where Hermione would pull Tom closer to her, like she was going to tell him a secret.

"Tom," she'd say. "You know you're different from them."

He would frown at this, and protest that he was the same. There wasn't anything _wrong_ with him. Hermione would shake her head. "Not wrong, _different_. Perhaps you're like me?"

He would pause, look up at her excitedly, and she would explain to him how she had broken her mother's vase by accident, and because she was so upset by her mother's distraught, she broke the dinner china as well; all because she was distressed. Her magic was reacting.

"I could have magic?" Tom's voice sounded far away, full of wonder. "So that means I'm like you!" His face lit up. "We're stronger then them. We're _better_ than them!"

This was where Hermione would chastise him. He would then grow quiet, as if he didn't want to displease his only friend.

Seeing the little boy made her heart swell—ache—with the thought that she was going to leave him, and he was going to feel betrayed. Abandoned. Utterly alone.

Whatever beautiful, cruel force brought had her here, she didn't like it. She would send a rude gesture to the sky, just to show whoever the hell was watching that she didn't agree with toying—messing and destroying—this boy. No wonder why he was a madman.

He looked so—god forbid—adorably proud that he would accomplish stealing food from the kitchen. It really wasn't much—they didn't have a huge supply of food to begin with due to the war rations. His eyes were alight as he showed off the apple with a coy arrogance. Least to say, Hermione was amused. He was always bringing her little bits here and there—trying to feed her. When Tom was not around, she would leave under a disillusionment charm—which took her a few times to fully accomplish without a wand—and went to the small town, steal food and come back.

She smiled kindly, rewarding him.

"Thank you so much, Tom. Let's cut it in-half," she'd offer. He was just too tiny.

Tom's frown grew.

"No! I never see you eat!" The protest was, in its own way, valid.

Unfairly so.

.

.

.

One the tenth night found Hermione and Tom on the small bed, a book in her lap as they read silently. Tom wasn't much of a cuddler, but he was pressed into her side, scanning the words on the page. Once, she had offered to read to him, but he'd only scoffed and said he was old enough to read. Only when he didn't understand a word, he would point it out and Hermione would explain. Sometimes that lead to long discussions. He was thrilled that she didn't talk to him like a child, and patiently waited for him to be one as he processed information.

It was well after bed time when Ms. Cole had locked the bedroom doors. Hermione wasn't too sure that it was only Tom's door, but Tom never said a word, scowling. Hermione had finished the book, and Tom was barely awake. Smiling fondly, she shut the book, flicking her hand and sent it back on the side table. She slowly slid herself off the bed and pulled Tom to the pillows instead of drooling on her shoulder. She tucked the blanket over him as he grumbled, shifting around before looking up at her with half opened eyes.

"Promise. . ." he whispered in a sleepy voice. "Promise me you'll stay, Hermione?"

She stared at him.

This was it.

This was the biggest mistake she made.

These were the words that will torment him for his entire life.

And then he'll have no one. Absolutely no one.

Tom's mop of smooth, rich, slightly wavy hair snuggled closer to her on the bed, and her arms instinctively wrapped around him, keeping him close.

What can she say?

What can she do?

She already knew what she would say.

She already knew that she would do.

Lie.

"I will always be around."

Perhaps it wasn't so far from the truth.

.

.

.

On the twelfth day, Hermione stared out the window, waiting for Tom to come home from school along with the other children. She wondered if she was stuck here. But that seemed silly, because she knew that at one point, she would leave him. What time will she appear to next? Will Tom still be in school? Will he be older than her? Will he become Voldemort? She hadn't looked into Time Travel since she was in this time. She hadn't looked into her situation. She just knew once she left, she was going to demand Tom—whatever age he was—what he knew; if he knew anything. Hermione pressed her forehead against the glass. It was 1944 when Tom knew, she'd only seen him twice when he was older. Perhaps she will be lucky and see an older Tom, and if was even luckier, he would help her.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not hear the door open, nor the heavy steps that followed.

"And just who th'fuck are you?" The sleazy voice of Barry snarled. Her eyes widen as she spun around. She was about to cast a Disillusionment Charm around her, making him believe that he was just crazy, or that could back fire and he could turn to Tom— but she stopped cold.

A gun was pointed right at her.

Instinctively, she reached for her wand that was not there, and Barry bristled, and his fingers tightened—

—the shot was loud, almost like apparation, but the pain blooming in her stomach told her that she was either splinched or Barry had indeed shot her.

"GOD _DAMN IT_ , BARRY! Don't shoot in the house! The children will be back soon!" Ms. Cole's voice screamed from down stairs. "Bloody gun," she huffed.

The words seemed to have brought out the man out of his stupor. He stared—wide eyed and mouth agape—shocked. He had just shot someone. A woman none the less!

Fuck, he was going to prison—or worse, he was going to the front lines!

They were silent, staring at one another, neither moving. Slowly, Hermione placed her hand on the growing red stain of her shirt. Blood seeped quickly over her fingered and she let out a ragged breath.

The sound of scampering feet clattering against the cold floors, and voices echoed in the hall. The children were home. Hermione quickly turned her back to the door, her hand holding the bleeding wound at her abdomen. She couldn't focus enough magic to heal herself, to disillusion herself, to hide herself. Barry had quickly hid he gun in his trouser pocket just when Tom burst through the door.

Her body was becoming lighter.

This was it.

"Hermione!"

His voice was so happy.

A tear ran down her cheek.

She did not turn around.

"So this wer' what you doing. You fuckin' molesting this 'ere boy!" Perhaps that made Barry find justification of just shooting an unarmed woman.

She could hear Tom's breathing suddenly hitch.

The frigid cold and blazing heat flooded through her system was familiar. Her body was roughly shaking as the force tried to grip her. She shut her eyes, focusing her raging magic into one spell.

She waved her arm.

_Stupefy._

Barry fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.

"Hermione?"

Tom's voice sounded far away and smaller.

"Good bye, Tom."

"What? No! Wait! Please stay! I'm sorry! This won't happen agai—"

And she was falling.

.

.

.

* * *

Nineteen Ninety Four

* * *

 

 

Pain exploded at her lower body, and her eyes were blinded with spots. The blood flooded out of her wound in red silky ribbons. When she landed, she simply laid there in a heap—in her blood. Wherever the hell she was, she didn't care. She didn't care anymore. If she was to die now, perhaps then all the madness was stopped. She knew the war had ended in her time. She knew that Harry and Ron were safe in her time. She knew that her parents were alive in her time.

She knew that.

So she could die and not have an regrets.

Vaguely, she registered something moving—sliding—across her legs.

A loud, familiar crazed cackle echoed through the room—through Hermione's skull—yet she didn't feel the need to look around. The lightness of her body did not surprise her. The nausea consuming her scenes did not surprise her. The pain the boarded numbness did not surprise her. The difficulty of breathing and swallowing did not surprise her. However, a wand was digging into the milky flesh of her neck by none other than Bellatrix Lestrange, did surprise her.

Just _when_ was she now?

Merlin. She was going to die here—with her.

"If it isn't the little _Mudblood_!" Bellatrix sounded absolutely delighted, even though she spat out the last word.

If there was the slimmest of chances that the bullet wound did not kill her, then she knew that she was going to die by the unhinged witch's wand. Gods, where was Tom? Did she not save him? Hermione's eyes finally glanced around, hoping to find—even though it was the most bizarre thing in the world—Voldemort among them; to have that peace of mind that Tom was there—at least there when she would finally die.

Bellatrix's laugh boomed again, and she thrust her wand forward, digging painfully into her throat.

" _Crucio_!" she sang.

Hermione choked out a scream, her body withering on the floor in pure agony. But it did not last long.

" _Enough_ ," a voice rang out and Bellatrix immediately ceased her curse, bowing her head in complete submission.

Tom _._

But it wasn't. This was _Voldemort_.

Light steps moved around her, before finally coming into view. Those forever red eyes stared down at her, his snake like face completely voided of emotions.

"It has been quite some time, Hermione."

 _Merlin_ —

A frown formed at his mouth.

She could barely process anything. This wasn't Tom anymore. This was Voldemort. The deformed, snake embodied Voldemort—

The man before her circled around her again, his eyes glancing at the red pool around her.

"I killed him," he simply said. "I killed Barry for you."

Hermione's eyes widen as they locked back into his and she took in a wavering breath.

"W—what year i—is it?" she managed through her chapped lips.

He stopped at her head before crouching down and ran his abnormally long fingers along her cheek.

"1994," he murmured.

She stared at him, baffled, confused, exhausted. She wanted to recoil from his touch, wishing for the force to grab her and take her away—

—away from Voldemort, and back to Tom—

He pointed his wand at her.

" _Avada_ _Kedavra._ "

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original ending, however I added another chapter for the sake of tying up loose threads. 
> 
> Thank you everyone! You are all fantastic!
> 
> c:

 

* * *

**VI**

* * *

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

_The small shack looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Not one particle of dust misplaced; no signs of life. For a moment, Hermione Granger pursed her lips as she assessed the scene in front of her._

_"Robert, you said there was a trace leading here?" she asked, her eyes flickering over the dust covered floors. The man, Rob, only shrugged._

_"It wasn't much of a trace, but there was a weak signal of magic in here—whether small it may be. It might lead us somewhere."_

_"And you found no reason to call in an Aruor escort?"_

_Robert snorted. "For what? Scared, Miss Granger?" he teased._

_Hermione only rolled her eyes as she took out of wand, flicking it out in front of her. No on was in the house._

_But—_

_Her eyebrows furrowed._

_She felt it—_

_—there was something—_

_—something that was calling to her._

_"Did you at least call in a Curse Breaker?" Hermione questioned him once again._

_"If I was out with Angus, yes; I would have. But I'm here with you. Unspeakable and Curse Breaker in one, you are."_

_Hermione would have smiled to that, possibly throw a playful retort at her partner. But not today; not now. She turned to him and frowned. "Something doesn't feel quite right."_

_All the mirth and playfulness from Robert had evaporated and then he nodded. He always trusted the judgement of one Hermione Granger. "Perhaps I should call Mr. Potter?" he suggested, but Hermione quickly shook her head._

_"No, Harry has enough to worry about."_

_"I'll call Angus then, and get someone from the Aruor department."_

_When Rob had stepped out, Hermione turned back to the small shack._

— _Whispers of her death; poisoning her dirty veins._

— _Promising anguish, torture._

— _Kill, Kill, Kill_ —

 _But there was one small, little voice_ — Please.

_Perhaps it was because of her blasted bleeding heart that she stepped forward. Perhaps it was because of her stupid pride that she stepped forward. Perhaps she wanted to prove that voice wrong of her 'dirty veins' that she stepped forward._

_There was just so much dust that it clung desperately to everything and anything, refusing to move. There was an unexplainable pressure inside_ — _one that almost felt familiar_ —

.

.

.

Harry Potter was livid.

Absolutely seething.

Inside, he was panicking.

"What the _hell_ happened!?" he roared at Robert, who was looking pale, red eyed, and completely guilty.

"I—I don't know! I stepped outside to call Angus and then I hear—I hear her screamin' and I ran as fast as I could. . ." Rob gulped. "She was just layin' there. Nothing was around; I pulled her out and immediately came here."

Emerald green eyes pierced through Robert's, glaring as if he hoped to incinerate him. In all reality, he knew he shouldn't be mad at her partner, nor at Hermione for being so incredibly dumb for someone who was supposed to be bright. The _brightest_. But in hindsight, he knew just who to blame.

If something happened to 'Mione, Harry would never forgive himself.

He hadn't felt anything in _years_ . He thought everything was _over._ He was so sure—everyone was. And now this had happened.

His scar itched.

 

* * *

 

 She looked as if she was asleep. So peaceful and elegant; perhaps like she had fallen asleep reading. Yes. That was what she looked like.

 

* * *

 

 Ron Weasley burst through the doors of St. Mungo's, immediately catching Harry pacing in front of Hermione's treatment room.

"How is she?" Ron asked after he caught his breath. As soon as Robert had sent his patronus, the red head dropped everything and quickly flooed over. Sweat coated his brow as he straightened his Auror robes. "Why the hell wasn't there a bloody Auror there? Nor a Curse Breaker? Was she completely _mental_?" Ron spat incredulously. He started to grumble, soundly suspiciously like 'ringing Rob's neck.'

"Robert is over there with a whole team, searching the place. I've better get down there too." Harry took one more longing look at the door. The Healers haven't let him inside to see her once. Not even if he was Harry Potter and she was Hermione Granger.

"Don't worry Harry, I'll watch her till Mum gets here, then I'll be there."

"Thanks, Ron."

"Don't mention it. But if it's true, and that fucking bastard comes back, I want his head on a stake."

 

* * *

 

It had been one week.

Seven days without Hermione.

She still laid in St. Mungo's, still breathing, still sleeping, and still completely unresponsive.

Harry often notice, every once in a while, she twitched.

His scar burned every time she does.

 

* * *

 

 On day eleven without Hermione, they had found it.

Perhaps if she was around, they would have found it eleven days earlier.

"That _bloody_ fucker—" Ron hissed.

Harry stared at it. Stared with hatred. Stared with sadness.

"Let's get the sword and finally end this," Ron grounded out. But instead, Harry shook his head.

"What if she's in there, Ron?"

The red head looked up towards his best friend with scrunched eyebrows and shocked blue eyes.

"Inside. . . inside that _thing_?"

Harry nodded.

"I think—I think I can feel her fighting."

 

* * *

 

On day fourteen, Ron believed Harry.

They had came up with a system.

Watch Hermione. Sleep. Watch the horcrux. Sleep.

Repeat.

It was Ron's turn to watch the cursed object when he noticed it.

Wand out defensively, he leaned in closer.The horcrux made another sickly snap and he gasped.

"Bloody hell."

The horcrux was cracking.

 

* * *

 

 On day seventeen, Hermione's reports were still the same.

She was still breathing, still sleeping, and still unresponsive.

Most of all, she was still healthy.

 

* * *

 

 On day twenty three, Hermione had a seizure.

"Get her stabilized!" The Healers barked at each other, pouring potions down her throat.

It was a frantic blur of white robes as Ginny Weasley had pinned herself against the wall; wide, panicked eyes trained on Hermione's convulsing body.

 

* * *

 

 On day twenty three, the horcrux was shattering.

Ron and Harry were staring at it; wide, panicked eyes trained on the crumbling horcrux.

"Come on Hermione," Harry whispered.

That was when Ginny's patronus showed up, frantically crying.

Hermione's heart was failing.

 

* * *

 

 On day twenty three, Hermione's heart stopped.

 

* * *

 

 On day twenty three, the horcrux decayed into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

  _There._

 _She could see it from her spot, the thing that had caused the magic signal_ — _the thing that called to her._

 _A familiar haze loomed over the room and Hermione lifted her lit wand out in front of her. The horcrux will not intimidate her. She had destroyed plenty and faced all seven. But this_ —

— _this was an unofficial horcrux. Shuffling her feet ever so slightly, disturbing the dust particles, Hermione peered closer at the object._

_It was so unremarkable, she would have over looked it, even if she was searching for it. But one doesn't quite forget the trademarks of Tom Riddle's horcrux. It was a simple glass paperweight. Clear, and solid._

_The glass was still whispering, hissing, horrid things, but there was that dominate voice_ —please, please, please—

— _her magic spiked in warning and she lifted her wand defensively._

 _Darkness suddenly bloomed around her and Hermione let out a shriek. The light from her wand was cut off and she couldn't see a thing, except that the ink blackness was some how darker in front of her, the shape of a male body, reaching his hands out_ —

— _he grabbed her_ —

Please.

_And then she was falling._

.

.

.

Tom Riddle Jr desperately wanted to die. It seemed like such a childish, ignorant fear when he was alive. . .and not just endless rotting emotions. Dying was a release, peace, and finally time to rest. But he had made sure that wouldn't happen to him. Locking away the years from the day he was born, to the day of his last blasted horcrux, he relived his days, constantly. Over, and over again.

He probably didn't deserve release.

He had seen his older body.

Her had seen what his heartless body did.

He had seen what his cruel body had done.

And it had all started with fear.

Perhaps not so, Tom had certainly tried to not dwindle on such a thought all of these years.

Suddenly, there was something—

—something different—

—something alive.

He could barely see her. A witch; wand lit, endless dust, and the most wildest hair.

If only he could _touch_ —

"Please, come closer."

It did not work; it wasn't like she could hear him. But there was nothing else to do, was there?

"Please, the light. Bring it here." It has always been so drab; endless darkness.

If only he could _reach_ —

If only—

Darkness swirled around him and it sounded like the glass had shattered. He saw the fear suddenly etched on her face and the startled shout she emitted.

"Please, don't be afraid."

Tom reached his hand outwards—

.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

 

 It was time to let go.

He knew that.

The loneness inside of him was filled, and he felt something that he hadn't felt in a long time—

—warmth.

It was a foolish thought; to keep her. It wasn't like he had any control of the horcrux power, whisking her away before his emotions could ever solidify.

But slowly watching her fade with worry and constant desperation, he knew he had to let her go.

Not even the warmth she had gave him, but escape. Sweet, bitter escape.

He knew he had to end it.

"I'm so sorry."

.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

 

 Hermione Granger's eyes snapped open with a loud gasp.

Sweat trickled down her neck and temples.

Her body was shaking.

There was a constant ringing in her ears. Everything around her was just blurred shapes.

"Miss Granger! Miss Granger, can you hear me?"

Mutely, Hermione turned her fuzzy vision towards a Healer in white robes, twirling their wand around her in vaguely familiar patterns.

"Hermione!" Harry and Ron had burst through the door, much to the Healer's dismay. She felt them take her hands, tears in their eyes, whispering to her over and over that she had done it.

She had destroyed the last, and final horcrux.

But Hermione knew.

She had done no such thing.

"He's gone, Hermione. Voldemort is gone."

She dully stared at them—her two best friends.

Voldemort had always been gone.

A tear managed to roll down her cheek.

But now Tom was too.

.

.

.

.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to thank everyone who had stumbled upon this. It does funny things to my heart to see the love and appreciation from each and every one of you. 
> 
> Thank you.

 

* * *

**VII**

* * *

 

_Monster._

_Insane._

_He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Name._

_Madman._

_Devil._

_Dark Lord._

_Inhuman._

_Sadistic._

_Voldemort._

_Freak._

_Freak!_

_FREAK!_

.

.

.

_Failure._

.

.

.

He was left there to wallow. He was left there to let the darkness he had once found comforting to consume him completely. He was left to _rot_ . His mind would replay to course of his life, and he'd watch. Sometimes he'd join, and try to change _—_ many, actually _—things_ and his intelligent mind would be cruel and allow such changes to happen. He would nearly forget everything, but once he progressed through his life, usually about Fourth Year, everything came back with such a force that left Tom Riddle to swallow himself, sulking—pity his wretched existence _—because nothing was fucking real anymore._ Once he was playing Quidditch with his Slytherin house. Actually making _—_ which was something he still cringed at _—friends._ He only envisioned that once or twice; they were all still babbling, incompetent idiots. He even tried the spiked pumpkin juice at the Yule. Such trivial things, really. Everything was different, however. His surroundings seemed to blur, people seemed translucent, the air seemed cold, his senses were diluted. In the beginning of his end, frustrated, Tom Riddle slaughtered as many students as possible before the old codger would kill him. Sometimes Tom would do it himself. And then were were times where he would cast the killing curse in the middle of the Great Hall, right to Dumbledore, and watch the life leave his eyes.

He just wanted to die _—_ to be emerged in a peaceful, endless _bliss_ of _solitude—_ perhaps he didn't quite deserve that, did he?

Sometimes he'd left his father live.

Sometimes he'd strangle him with his bare hands.

By no means was Tom Riddle a sweet boy.

Years had past since his living body decayed, what was left of his magic seeking refuge in the clear glass paperweight that held the pitiful emotions of his entire life. As time passed, it was were those trivial things that made him regret so much. Like Butter. Merlin, did he miss the taste of _butter._

Piteous.

That was all he was anymore.

_Freak._

.

.

.

The days all bled together and Tom Riddle couldn't say exactly when he had felt her. But it was abrupt. She was demanding, insistent, and overwhelming. The horcrux reacted harshly towards her entire being. She was innocent; her magic pure.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to embrace it or taint it.

There was a creek in the old, wooden floors of the small cottage _—_ shack, really _—_ and small, dainty, _hesitant,_ footsteps echoed. He could practically _taste_ her magic _—_ he was nearly salivating. Her magic stretched out, filling, overpowering, dominating, destructing, and so full of _life._ If he was anything, at this very moment, he was absolutely _pathetic._

_Closer. Please come closer._

Please.

That was not a word part of a Dark Lord's vocabulary and certainly not familiar to Tom Riddle _—_ except for when he charmed the damn knickers off of everyone he met, or when his blasted father was begging for his life when he killed him over and over again _—_

But this woman _—_

_—_ He just _—_ he had to _—_

_Please._

He could feel the dark magic swirling in the depths of somewhere forgotten—hissing, raging, screaming, threatening, desperately just wanted to _kill._ Tom would not stand for it. The creeks were growing, and he never wanted something so _—_

"Tom Riddle," her faint voice breathed out. " _Voldemort._ "

_No! She knew. She knew. SHE KNEW—_

_—_ his magic desperately erupted, and he vaguely heard her shriek in surprise as his mere essence engulfed her, drowning her, sinking her, pulling her closer and closer to him. He could not be alone any longer. His fingers could almost ghost over her soft skin, and he could almost feel her wild hair _—_

_—_ her magic retaliated; violently _clawing,_ fighting and hissing, _digging in—_

She suddenly seemed like nothing but air; unobtainable, and slipping through his hold _—_ through his _magic—_ as he frantically tried to grip her back again.

She then she was falling.

_Failure._

 

* * *

 Wool's Orphanage

22 April 1933

* * *

 

 

_"You're a freak."_

Young Tom's face was stoic. The children all around him would either ignore Tom, or bully him. He was used to it. They thought he was strange, weird, a _freak._ They were, most of all, frighten of him; especially when Tom was mad. Toys were suddenly gone, found outside, _burning_ —

_'No one wants a boy like you,"_ they sneered, teasing and Tom would just get _so_ angry. Windows would suddenly burst, raining glass and _shattering_ —

The adults who had come every month to adopt a child or two, would look over him. There eyes would skim over the little quiet boy in the corner, clutching a book, like he wasn't even there.

Lonely.

But Tom was used to it by now.

Dark eyes glanced down at the title of the book he held so desperately.

_A Winter's Tale._

When Tom had seen the various books on the shelf in the sitting room, he wasn't sure where the Orphanage had gotten their dirty hands on such a collection. Perhaps it was from man who brought the post every morning; he was always bringing in something for the children. But there the book sat, high in the shelf looking worse for wear. Not that it bothered him. Everything was still legible and Tom was content sitting on the floor as the adults fluttered over the other children. He opened the cover, chubby fingers running along the smooth plains of the pages. A finger stopped at one word in particular.

No, not a word. A name.

_Hermione._

Something stirred inside of him. He wasn't quite sure what, but as his dark eyes lingered over the name, and a pressure warmed his chest. Suddenly, a grubby hand ripped the book out of Tom's fingers. Wide, dark eyes looked up, startled as Billy Stubbs stood there, sneering at him. Billy idly flipped through the pages, tearing some right down the middle before tossing the book to the dull wooden floor.

_" Freaks can't read."_

Tom stared at the sullied book and felt something coiling inside of him—

It was silly really, he should be _used_ to it.

Anger bubbled into rage—

Billy was walking away, back to the potential parents and gave them a wide, cheesy grin, like he had done something _good._

_Freakfreakfreakfreakfreak._

_—_ something surged within him—

Billy, who was across the room by that point, suddenly bellowed over with a wail of a scream, startling all of the adults and children. He just continued to scream, scream and _scream_ —

A sickly snap echoed through the room and everyone watched in horror as Billy's arm was now bent in an unnatural way, the bone breaking as slowly as possible.

Tom suddenly felt empty and _tired_ . He reached over, picking up the abused book, holding it to his chest. His eyes darted around the room, the blur of adults crowding around a now sobbing Billy Stubbs. Some of the couples had even left, quickly giving their stuttering apologies to Ms. Cole before fleeing. Her eyes turned towards Tom, narrowing slightly with a frown, like he was being blamed— _I didn't do anything!_ His mind screamed. Then he felt another pair of eyes on him and he desperately tried not to shudder. He didn't want to show weakness to them. He was smarter! He was better! He was _gifted_ —

A large, tanned hand gripped Tom's shoulder painfully, enough to make his eyes water before Barry dragged him out of the room.

Not one person noticed Tom's absence.

.

.

.

His body was numb. No matter how much Barry had smacked him around, no matter how much he had slammed Tom into walls, no matter how much he used his belt on Tom's skin; nothing compared to the overwhelming _pressure_ swimming in his chest as his head chanted, almost as if _praying_ that name would make Barry _stop._

_HermioneHermioneHermioneHermione._

The pain was sinking into his bones when Barry was finally finished, throwing the small boy into his room and spat at him for good measure. The older man said something, but Tom could barely hear him over the sound of his pounding heart and the rush in his ears, trying to focus on the fading sensation to keep him from the agony. The door slammed shut, leaving the small child in the darkness. Then the pressure was gone and Tom felt empty. He wished he still had _A_ _Winter's Tale_ in his arms, like it was his lifeline—

_"Tom."_

A strange voice startled him.

That was not Barry's voice, nor Ms. Cole. It couldn't be any of the children.

Lightning struck violently and lit up the room, emitting a woman standing in the corner near the door. Hair wild and eyes bright, her hands were up in a surrender as she crept closer.

"Wh—who. . . are y-you?" He didn't care how weak he sounded.

He didn't know how, but her hand was on his cheek and she whispered _something_ and _it didn't hurt_ —

She was so warm. So bright. So solid. _So real_ —

"My name is _Hermione._ "

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

15 October 1940

* * *

 

 

"Correct again, Tom, m'boy!" Slughorn's praise rang out through the potion classroom.

His magic crackled. Lifting his eyes, he glanced around, centering on Malfoy. Memories that didn't quite make sense to him flooded into his mind.

_"You dare defy me, Abraxas?" Tom's voice was smooth, but hard. He had a pointed, emotionless gaze on the pureblood. The blond wizard was on his knees, bowing properly to the half-blooded boy in front of him like Tom was some sort of God._

_"N-no, my Lord," he coward, his long hair falling into his face as his body shook._

_Tom waved his wand, bored. "You know better, Abraxas._ Crucio."

Tom pulled himself out of his own thoughts as he witnessed Malfoy's agonized screams and withering. Yet, there Malfoy was, sitting, sneering at every word coming from Slughorn's mouth, and certainly not withstanding torture.

His magic was still reaching, still _searching_ ; for what, he didn't know. A looming pressure suddenly caught Tom's breath. It felt as if he was being crushed by an invisible giant that was being slowly lowered on top of him. Again, his dark eyes darted around the classroom, trying to see if this was some dirty trick. But everyone had their nose in their books _—_ or some hiding behind them as they either slept or finished homework from their other classes _—_ no _third_ year student was strong enough _—smart enough—_ to hold such a spell _—_

His magic suddenly gripped _—_

_—_ tugged—

_—pulled—_

_—_ a body crashed into his desk, sending Tom's seat skidding back a few feet. His eyes were wide as he started at the bloody mess, his magic crackling, hazing his senses—

So warm. Bright. _Solid._

Someone he thought he'd never seen again _—_ perhaps he even thought it was just his imagination _—_ stood in front of him. Hermione rose his own wand against him.

Bloody hell.

_She was real._

And he was _livid._

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

28 December 1940

* * *

 

 

He figured that it was his magic bringing her—possibly taking her away as well. Out of the two occasions he had seen his Hermione, there was that awful, crushing _pressure_ . He desperately tried to control himself and his magic: mediating, researching endless books _—_ restricted section, of course _—_ but there was nothing! Not one _bleeding thing—_

His magic suddenly grasped _something_ and then he felt it slipping.

"No," he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut, focusing on the force that was fighting his hold. Sweat rolled down his temples as his clenched fits shook _—_

_—_ yanked _—_

_—dragged—_

_—_ Nothing. There was no relief. There was no body. There was no Hermione.

He did what any rational wizard would do.

"Fuck!"

He _bombarda_ his desk, watching it blast into a thousand splinters before repairing it and doing it all over again.

_Failure._

.

.

.

_'I don't know you. . .'_

Tom stared at the woman on the Hospital Wing cot, feeling numb. Her words echoed through his head throughout the months as he tried to make sense of it. He wasn't sure when he was going to see her again; if he was going to see her at all. Nothing was making any sort sense anymore. Ever since she had dropped onto his desk, Tom would wake up in a sweat, panting and shivering. He had vivid dreams of the dead—death by his hand. Something in the depths of his mind, a voice was screaming—

_She knows what I am!_

It was a shriek of agony, shame, and self loathing, but Tom couldn't quite connect to those feelings.

But all he could do, as he stood in the opening of the drapes, was _stare_ at her. _Gods,_ was she even the same woman?

Her nose was stuck in a book, her pale fingers were clutching it for dear life.

She looked—

_'...but maybe that is because I haven't met you yet.'_

—she seemed so weak, so _fragile._

Her skin was pale, ashen and the brightness was diminishing. She had almost seemed translucent; not quite there— _trying_ not to be there. Those bright eyes were lack luster and a bit red. There were dark purple circles under them, like she hasn't slept in a week. Her body was thin, lips were chapped and to the point there they almost looked blue—

What had _happened_ to her?

Those eyes met his, and a smile broke out of her tinged lips. She then told him she was traveling through time calmly. Tom felt a bit put out for not coming up to that conclusion. It made sense, of course, why she didn't see to know him at first; why she was so confused. He wasn't just some dirty half-blood slowly going insane. So when had she come from? He had never seen her this weak; well, out of the two times he had seen her. Even when she was bleeding all over the place, she seemed strong, powerful, _complete._ He barely remembered the time he was younger, always trying to push those memories of her far away because he thought _she wasn't real._ Just a cruel trick his mind was playing on him. What had she looked like then? Had she met him yet? What if it was the _traveling_ that was doing this to her?

Quickly, she drifted asleep while Tom stood at her bedside. Something stirred within him as he looked at her and he desperately tried to calm himself down. If his magic was what brought her here, whose to say it was the reason why she was leaving? When Tom stared at her sleeping, frail form, he could feel her—

—feel her magic constantly fighting.

Over and over and over—

If this continued—

Tom clutched the bed side, leaning forward and pressed his forehead against hers, trying to still her essence—her magic to _calm down._

"Please stay," he whispered. What else was he supposed to do?

—she will die.

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

3 April 1941

* * *

 

 

The dreams were becoming relentless. Only, they weren't dreams.

They were his _memories._

.

.

.

Mudblood.

_There was nothing but sweet, pure agony. He was being ripped in half, being torn and saved into a permanent existence. He screamed and screamed, and pain flooded through him. But it was worth it. All of it. The stupid mudblood bint, Myrtle, had stumbled in like a little, pathetic duckling, only to be welcomed at Death's door by his most precious gift. His body felt heavy with dark magic, but his soul felt lighter_ — _incomplete. He didn't mind in the slightest. There were no uses for any sentiments, emotions, silly feelings to block his judgment. Immortal; he was immortal. Death could never touch him, never graze his presence ever again. More_ — _he wanted more._

Mudblood.

_Oh how he hated that old man. That old codger. Dumbledore looked down at him at every turn, every accomplishment he had ever done. The stupid oaf knew he was great; knew he was far superior than any other student; knew that he was powerful; knew that he will be, one day, far stronger than he will ever be. But, now, Dumbledore stood in a position of power, a position which, he could easily shut Tom down, close all the doors he will need to become successful, make sure he will stay nothing but a lonely, pathetic, little half-blood in need a guidance. But, Tom knew. He knew perfectly well. He will be the one to kill the great Albus Dumbledore._

Mudblood.

_Seeing the bright flashes of green sent a sick, twisted, pleasure-filled shivers of delight through him. As soon as he took out the Potter boy, he will become the most powerful, unstoppable Dark Wizard of all time. Nothing, not even a small infant_ — _though he was appalled when he had first heard the prophecy_ — _will stop him. The blood-traitor was first. James Potter fought quite relentlessly, fierce wand movements, as he spat at him. 'You will_ never _touch my family!' All it took was a well-aimed Avada, right through his heart. The fiery red-head was just as stubborn as her husband, and rather good at her wand movements, for a mudblood. But she too, crumbled to the green light from his wand. But the boy_ — _the small, useless, annoying, stupid child_ — _the light never touched him._

Mudblood.

_It was pathetic; the way she withered on such a beautiful piece of furniture. All she did was scream, and when she wasn't screaming, she was spouting some nonsense of 'inhumane' and 'monster'. Such an annoying Muggle Studies Professor. This was all for just amusement. But then her teary eyes landed on Severus, and she practically dragged herself over to him, her quivering body not cooperative in the slightest. She then proceeded the beg to him, over and over. Voldemort felt something he usually didn't usually direct to the likes of them_ — _pity. So, as the caring Dark Lord that he was, he pointed his wand to her. He relished in the killing curse, and gave the dead body to his beloved Nagini._

Mudblood.

_The floor was sleek with hot, wet blood. His bare feet seemed to glide on the marble ground with elegance. Nagini was certainly happy when he saw the snake merrily feasting on the warm, fresh, dead bodies. As furious as he was about the meddling trio finding his horcrux and destroying it, killing everyone in frustration and rage felt so good. The incompetent wizards around him were not keeping his precious items safe. He will not be destroyed. He will not be killed. He will not fall. He will not die. His legacy will run forever._

Mudblood.

_Red eyes peered over the demolished castle, laughing maniacally as flashes of green created shadows of death on the ground. Rubble littered the stone floor as he strolled his way through, flicking his wrist at anyone who rose their wand foolishly against him. They would crumble to the ground in a heap as the life would leave their eyes_ — _their blood quickly running cold. In his bony, long, ugly fingers, he held the most powerful wand, the unbeatable wand; The Elder Wand. He will rule all. And nothing will get in his way._

Mudblood.

Tom had his hand on Hermione's shoulder. Her skin felt like hot iron, burning and angry—

—memories flooded through him and _Oh God_ —

"Excuse me, sir. I believe you had duel to a _mudblood."_

He wasn't real. None of this was.

Tom Marvolo Riddle— _I am Lord Voldemort._

The glass paper weight. The small shack. There was nothing. _He_ was nothing. Dumbledore was right. He was absolutely _nothing_.

_But she was real._

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

24 March 1942

* * *

 

 

Everything made sense to him now. Why everyone seemed to blur around him, why everything seemed so dull. Why Hermione seemed so _solid._ Everything fell into place. The dark horcrux magic was always crackling around him, trying to keep Hermione _in one place_ but it was her magic that was constantly fighting his. It also explained why she looked they way she had in 1940; so weak, _so exhausted_.

But not this Hermione.

Her face was flushed; not in the 'I just had Quidditch practice' but it looked more _embarrassed. . ._

Like he understood what _that_ meant.

The way she had avoided him like he was the Grimm himself had Tom thinking of the worst possible scenario of all.

_She knew._

But, for some reason, she gave no indication of such. Searching and searching, she tried, but he knew.

He knew that it was fruitless.

His magic sizzled when it came into contact with her directly. And Tom prayed, chanting, _willing_ , hoping to control enough to make sure she stay put with him longer, hoping that she will not wilt.

But it was useless.

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

1944

* * *

 

 

He had been wanking in the shower when she came next. Embarrassingly, the increasing pressure in his chest felt more exquisite than his own hand around his shaft. Of course, that could also be a side effect of being _non-existent._ He was not truly alive, thus, masturbation was not required and completely useless. But he wanted to do it. Even though he could probably deduce that it was a waste of time, thinking of his Hermione stirred some thoughts and he began thinking that, as a boy his age, it seemed like second nature to wank about the bird he like.

Right?

But it was just embarrassing.

The water dripped down his naked form, simply standing there, holding his member unenthusiastically. His body tensed, skin tingling and he let out a shiver before groaning. His magic was rumbling out of him, reaching and stretching, trying to clamp on the Hermione's magical aura—

—jerked—

— _wrenched_ —

—Tom groaned, finding a satisfactory pleasure of the weight suddenly leaving, and then filling up with warmth again.

Hermione was here.

Tom couldn't help but to smirk.

_Thank Salazar._

He was quick to turn off the water, quickly mopping a towel over his wet skin, and threw on pants. A swift spell to dry his hair, Tom bounded out of his bathroom... to find Hermione tucked perfectly into his bed.

_Thank Salazar indeed._

But the longer he looked at her, the grin melted off his face. _Gods_ , she looked awful! He tentatively called out her name, just to make sure that in was indeed, in fact, Hermione. Which was rather daft of him—he knew that she was there, in front of him, like thunder after the lightning, she was after the pressure. She looked more frail, more weak than ever. Creamy skin pale, frizzy hair flatten. The wreck that was in front of him blushed as her dull eyes stared at his chest for a moment. He let a small, half hearted smirk curl his lips, but was quick to fall off as he watched her struggle to do the simple task of sitting up.

He flicked his wrist, calling over any clean jumper from his wardrobe before settling himself next to his Hermione. Those large brown eyes turned to him and Tom Riddle found himself without a single thought in his brilliant, yet cruel mind.

Her stare was pleading, whether she was aware or not. They were glassy, and her thick lashes fluttered every moment or two as she began shaking. The Dark Lord didn't do well with the art of comfort. At least when it came to other beings. A quick spell and torturing them seemed like a quicker route; killing them was not a challenge—it was as simple as breathing.

However, Tom had found himself with his hand over hers, trying awkwardly to give her some sort of condolence through the stroke of his thumb.

It seemed like he made the situation from terrible, to worse.

She started to _cry._

This would be where the Dark Lord would grow irritated and quickly rid of the problem before anything else is done. But now, he found himself completely weak to the witch's tears as they streamed in abundance down her pale, hollow cheeks. Without any thought, he began to rub her back as she tossed herself into his lab, trying desperately not to let the guilt boil him alive. His witch continued to sniffle and whimper, and Tom found himself conforming them both in a comfortable position before he soaked himself in her essence, not matter how weak it was.

Tom Riddle never felt any sort of sorrow as he did at this very moment. As much as he relished in the feeling of _living_ for the first time, it was not worth the expense of this witch.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, pressing his lips to the top of her bushy head. "I'm so sorry."

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

1945

* * *

 

 

Tom felt Hermione's magic, but for once, he _ignored_ it.

The sight of the man before him was occupying his attention, and this time, Riddle didn't grovel at the appearance of his Hermione. It didn't matter if this wasn't real or not, if he was really dead, or if she was really alive. She was a distraction—a peaceful, hopeful, yet so terribly _mocking_ that Tom felt ire stir deep within him.

_She_ was the reason why he was defeated.

_She_ was the reason why he was rotting.

_She_ was the reason why he was nothing.

Her and the blasted Potter boy and the freckled buffoon where the bane of his existence. They wouldn't have gotten half as far as the had without the little swot, know-it-all girl. Which, for some reason, Tom couldn't help himself but to smirk at that. He had everything planned out, so perfectly executed, but because he focused so much on killing a teenage boy, he had lost his sense of judgment and action. And that thought made him angry.

Right now, he just wanted to hear someone _scream._

He wondered if he really could do it?

Could he really torture someone into submission? Into bowing before him like he was Merlin himself?

Yes, apparently he could.

And oh, he _loved_ it.

Abraxas was the symbol of what could have been a suppressor in Tom's life, but at this moment, he was kneeling down, sweat coated skin, disheveled hair, and a pure terrified look on his face. He felt rage building inside of him. It felt foreign, but _Gods,_ it felt so _right._

This was who he was.

_Voldemort._

No more was he the urchin of the Wizard World. No more was he someone's stepping stone. No more was he the scum people saw him as.

No more would he dilute himself because of some witch.

"No more, Abraxas, no more." He shot the dark spell at the blonde, but it never met it's true target. The feminine cry of pain echoed throughout the Room of Requirement and it anchored into Tom's useless soul.

"HERMIONE!" he shouted, rushing forward as he watched her bloody form fade this time.

_Monster._

 

* * *

 Hogwarts

1951

* * *

 

 

The feeling of a warm, solid, and completely _healthy_ body crash into him was a breath of fresh air for the young Dark Lord.

Well, as close to healthy as she was going to get. His fingers traced one of the marks he left her in 1945. The regret was there, but that feeling was overridden by the sheer amount of relief Hermione was here and well—not some withering flower anymore. He couldn't help but let out some sort of crazed laugh of disbelief before the witch tore herself away from Tom like he was plague. Tom, wide eyed and mouth gaped, only watched as she panicked. He quickly tried to calm her, but the lioness showed her teeth and claws and Tom smartly left her to her own.

The look in her eyes spat fire at him as she wrenched her fingers through her hair, mumbling loudly, but jumbled words that didn't quite make sense to him.

It all ended with Hermione flopping herself into the lush grass. Tom couldn't find it in himself to look away. She looked so radiant, so _alive_ that he wished uselessly for the millionth time that he could keep her in one solid time, to keep her magic at bay enough that it wouldn't fight his own magic.

Of course, the sentiment was pointless.

He could already feel her magic hissing, raising it's hackles towards him—which was the right response, he supposed, but it didn't lighten the fact that her entire being was completely against him. He watched as Hermione's body seized up, like he had seen so many times and he took a deep breath.

It was now, or nothing.

He leaned over her, watching with mild amusement that her face flushed from their close proximity. Her breath was sweet, fast against his cheek. He noted the freckles on her nose and the Dark Lord couldn't help but to find them adorable. But the terrified look on her face when he moved in even further erased all thoughts of her apparent features that were favored by him.

Now or never, he thought.

He was quick, pressing his warm lips against her own. She didn't have time to respond, as she was already seeping out of the current time, but Tom found himself clinging to her fading body, hands buried in her hair and kissed deeper than before.

_"I love you, Hermione."_

 

* * *

 1994

* * *

 

 

Killing was all Tom Riddle knew how to do. Hurting people was another specialty that Tom perfected. Making them scream, wither, beg, _weep,_ all simply fueled that. Can he make them scream louder? Can he make their body spasm so fast, so hard that they'd just die? Could he make them beg more; to the point where they pleaded for death, admitting he was the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time? Well, that was a silly question; of course it was true. But all the _sobbing_ was annoying, however Tom found himself that it was very easy to make a grown Wizard pathetically shed tears like they were two and skinned their knee.

He was easily angered. Perhaps it was the incompetence he had seen in people absolutely astounded him, and then he would throw hexes and curses around because it seemed that he would have to do _everything._

But nothing, absolutely _nothing_ made him more enraged than hearing her _scream_ —

"— _Enough_ ," he hissed, seething.

How was she even here? It that been _years_ without feeling the pull of her magic; the pure retaliation, nor did he ever felt a looming pressure of her existence. There was nothing. He had assumed the last time _she_ would see _him_ was when Tom was younger; when _he_ had first met _her._ It took a little practice to extract his own memory, to see exactly what had _happened_ that night—that Barry had done to her. Tom thought that she had died that night, and in a fit of his rage, he killed him.

So very, _very_ slowly.

It was what Tom did best.

Things cannot be changed, even though he was desperate to have the chance to really live; live while burying himself with a wild haired witch named Hermione. But, of course, that was not really Tom.

He was a master of being cruel. He could keep her for as long as he could, and when her magic depleted, he would watch the life leave her eyes; the last thing she will see would be _him._

Red eyes fell onto the witch, still twitching of Bellatrix's curse. It only further angered him.

With a flick of his wrist, his wand pointed at his most loyal subject. Green flames engulfed her and she fell into a lifeless heap on the ground.

It was what Tom did best.

This, by far, was the worst he had seen her. It wasn't just the sight of her sweet blood pooling around her, it was simply _everything_ of her. Once, he truly thought that watching her sink closer and closer to death would give him immense pleasure. But now that he was standing over her, watching her trying to suck in the last of her breaths, _flinching_ from him, Tom Riddle had never felt so empty in his entire state of _being_ —

He lowered his wand to her.

This was the only thing Tom Riddle knew best.

And that was alright.

Right now, she was suffering.

And he was the only one to fix it.

_Goodbye, Hermione._

Her warm brown eyes locked into his as the tip of his wand grew green.

_This_ was Tom's only defining feature; the art of killing.

And that was okay.

" _Avada Kedavra."_

As she was surrounded by green, Voldemort straightened, glancing around the dark room. He waved his wand in a complicated pattern, thinking to himself that, _yes,_ he was a murderer. A very good one, he might say. Everything was becoming lighter as Hermione's magic surged out around him, before completely escaping his prison, back to _life._

Red raging fire erupted from the Elder wand. The heat was impossible to bear, and the dark magic crackled all around him. A large snake, much like his beloved basilisk, formed from the flames. The curse's magic was thick and his own was screaming, raging, completely angered of his _betrayal_. Fiendfyre consumed everything—his magic, the horcrux, and he himself—and bringing them all to the ultimate destruction—their ultimate death.

And that was just fine for Tom Riddle Jr.

.

.

.

_fin_


End file.
